Dominance in Despair
by Iktomi
Summary: As a housewife's family crumbles, she reaches out in desperation, but the mysterious young man has his own dark, twisted designs on her world. As she spirals into a sea of lust and desire, will she remember her goal? M for language, STRONG sexual content.
1. Crash

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 1

_Crash_

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_Author's Note: Please leave reviews. Positive reviews are greatly appreciated, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Pointless flaming "just because" you don't like it/object to the subject matter will be countered as vulgarly, immaturely and directly as I can muster._

_This story is rated M for cursing and **strong** sexual content. This is a story of someone whose goal is to completely dominate and control the subjects of this story, and the content may prove disturbing to some readers._

_Consider yourself warned. If you read on, it's not my fault if you can't handle it._

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Journal Entry 1: My father feels that I lack the ruthlessness to succeed in the family business. He feels that I cannot exert the kind of control over others that made him a success. He called me weak, said that to make it to the top, I must possess the ability to own other people of their own free will. To possess them mind, body and soul. To do with them as I wish and to have them love me for it, regardless of their age, race, gender or ethnic background.

I'm sure that deep down, he wishes that my brother had lived, and that I had died.

I will show him. The human mind is like a lump of clay. With the right situation, conditions and manipulation, it can be shaped and mended into whatever I wish.

I will show him that I can bend anyone to my will. I will dominate them to the very depths of depravity, and they will love me for it. I will ruin their lives as they know it and force them to submit to my filthy desires, and they will worship me for it.

Now, to find the right situation...

* * *

The doorbell's harsh chime shocked Marge from her trance-like state. She groaned in frustration as she drew her hand back up her body, away from the task it was performing. Her other hand squeezed one final squeeze, her nipple hard to her touch as it protruded from between her fingers.

She glanced at the alarm clock. 2 AM. The doorbell rang again.

"Damn it, Homer," she groaned as she sat up on the edge of the bed.

She straightened her beehive hair a little as she pulled on her pink cotton robe, fishing for her slippers with her feet. "Even when he's not here, he won't let me be satisfied," she thought to herself. Lately, a late night visit from the police hauling Homer's drunken ass home has become a regular occurrence. On top of that, he has been so fixated on that damn bar and his alcoholic cronies that he hasn't paid attention to her needs in months.

The doorbell rang again.

As she slipped her slippers on and stood, walking towards the hall, she searched for a reason why he has been ignoring her. It couldn't be her body, she thought. A taut, firm ass, a pert, ample set of natural breasts, most women her age would kill or pay out the ass for a body like hers.

The doorbell rang again as she opened her door into the hallway. Standing outside their doors, her daughters Lisa and Maggie looked at her bleary-eyed and cranky.

"Mom, someone's at the door," her six-year old youngest whined, her plain blue nightgown wrinkling as she rubbed her eyes.

Her elder daughter, the twelve-year old prodigy, muttered "Dad's home" with a sarcastic drone.

"Go back to bed girls, I'll take care of this." Marge readjusted her sash as the younger Simpsons sighed and went back to bed. As she passed it, Marge registered in the back of her head that Bart's door clicked shut. Odd, considering he was supposed to be spending the weekend with his degenerate friends Milhouse and Nelson.

The doorbell rang again. She'll have to see what Bart's problem was later.

As she descended the stairs, she registered the hard pounding on her door. "Ms. Simpson, Springfield Police. Open the door." She recognized Chief Wiggum's voice on the other side of the door. Part of her registered the unusual circumstances. Normally, when Homer gets drunk, Eddie and Lou just ring the doorbell, open the door with Homer's keys and toss him inside. However, this time the Chief was here, the street flooded with spinning red and blue lights and making enough noise to wake every neighbor for a thousand yards.

Marge said a silent prayer that Homer was alright as she opened the door.

"Good evening Chie-"

Marge was cut short as Eddie forced his way in, gun drawn and pointed. He made a beeline up the stairs as Lou followed behind, gun drawn, moving towards the kitchen.

"Look, I'm sorry for this Midge, but it's standard procedure." Wiggum walked in, his frumpy disheveled self taking particular note to keep Marge focused on him. Through the glare of the lights outside, Marge could barely register additional officers swarming around the building outside.

Marge's emotions went from shocked to furious as she heard a door being kicked in upstairs. "Clancy, what the heck is going on here? Why are you barging in like this?"

Wiggum held up his hand, offering Marge a piece of paper. It said "Warrant of Arrest" in large letters above it. He spoke up as Marge snatched it out of his hand and began reading frantically. "Look Ms. Simpson, there was a robbery two hours ago at the Kwik-E-Mart. The clerk was shot."

Marge looked up, confusion and horror splashed across her face as she read the name on the warrant. "According to the security footage, the gunman was..."

Marge snapped her head around as she heard her thirteen year-old son yelp in panic as Eddie guided him forcefully down the stairs, his hands cuffed behind his back. Bart's clothes were covered in muck and grime, as if he had been in a dumpster.

In Eddie's other hand was a sawed-off shotgun Marge didn't recognize.

Bart's voice cracked as he looked at his mother's terrified expression, meekly pleading "Mom, do something" as Lou came back into the foyer, holstering his weapon. "Bartholomew Simpson," Lou started, "you are under arrest for grand larceny and assault with a deadly weapon. You have the right..."

Marge's brain didn't register whatever else Lou said. In her mind, her son's pleas for salvation rang around like a hollow bell. It was all she could do to stay on her feet, not registering the sound of Lisa and Maggie gasping in shock at what was going on. All she saw was her son, struggling in his cuffs as he was led out the door.

Her reverie was broken by the sharp tone of a cell phone ringing. As Lou stopped to answer the call on the lawn, she vaguely made out the faces of her friends and neighbors as they watched the scene unfold like some damn TV drama.

As Lou nodded, hung up the phone and whispered something to Chief Wiggum, the only thought Marge could form was a wish that her husband were here. That he was home, and could put a stop to this cruel joke.

"Marge, that was the hospital," Wiggum started, his voice unusually firm and competent-sounding. "The clerk, Sanjay, has died of his injuries...Bart is now under arrest for first-degree murder."

As the door closed in front of her, Marge was unable to even form a concise thought. Sinking to her knees, she just began to cry, not even registering the panicked inquiries of her daughters as they bounded down the stairs.


	2. Respite

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 2

_Respite_

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_Author's Note: Please leave reviews. Positive reviews are greatly appreciated, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Pointless flaming "just because" you don't like it/object to the subject matter will be countered as vulgarly, immaturely and directly as I can muster._

_This story is rated M for cursing and **strong** sexual content. This is a story of someone whose goal is to completely dominate and control the subjects of this story, and the content may prove disturbing to some readers._

_Consider yourself warned. If you read on, it's not my fault if you can't handle it._

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Journal Entry 2: Thank god I got my money out of the trusts and into my offshore before my father thought to freeze my assets. For someone so critical of me, he seems to want to make things as hard for me as possible.

I decided to adopt a different name. If someone knew who I was, they would be enticed by the fortune associated with my family, and I will have proved nothing. Nobody would be curious about an "aspiring writer" showing up in a town.

I think I have found the perfect target. My sources tell me about a family in a small town out in the middle of nowhere. A standard, generic family if I ever saw one. One son, two daughters.

The wife, Marge, is absolutely gorgeous. The pictures my investigator sent me are astounding. In addition, she has two daughters. One of them is a little young, but the other is like a flower, just beginning to blossom.

And soon, they will all be mine...

* * *

Homer grumbled as he picked up his coat. "Marge, I'm going to Moe's. I'll be back later."

Marge clenched her fists as she stood up from the couch. "Again? Homer, our son, our only little boy, is in prison, possibly for the rest of his life, we can't afford a proper legal defense and YOU'RE GOING OUT DRINKING?"

Beforehand, Marge would only yell at her husband when the kids were away. Nowadays, she didn't have the patience, following her husband as Lisa and Maggie remained motionless in their seats.

Homer turned to face his faithful wife indignantly. "Look, I earn the money in this house, I can go out drinking if I want!"

"Of course you go out drinking if you want. It's all you EVER want," Marge snipped back. Her chest heaved in anger, her plain green shoulder-less dress moving with every infuriated gasp. "I barely tolerated your problem before, but now I refuse! We can't get Bart a proper lawyer, but you don't mind pissing away our money in a beer mug! We can't even afford to cover all our bills anymore, that's why we're renting out Bart's room, remember?"

Homer opened the front door with a huff. "I work hard every day Marge, I deserve a little relaxation! God knows I'm not getting it in this house..."

Marge just became angrier. "I wonder whose fault THAT is! If you walk out that door, don't you dare come back!"

Lisa covered Maggie's ears with her hands as they sank further into the sofa.

Marge clenched her fists harder as Homer answered her by walking through the door and slamming it shut. He may be the breadwinner, but Marge was incensed that he always had time for drinking with his buddies. Marge had been to every court date, ever interview with the police. She hasn't even had Homer to herself long enough to tell her that Bart was going to be tried as an adult.

"Lisa...Maggie...I need you to go upstairs, OK? Go play in your room."

"Mom," Maggie quivered, "Everything's going to be alright...right?"

Marge remained silent as Lisa shushed her sister. It may have taken her forever to start speaking, but right now Marge wishes she hadn't. Maggie had this terrible habit of saying exactly what she didn't want to hear.

"Come on Mags," Lisa said helpfully, sensing the frustration and despair radiating from her mother. "Let's go to my room. I'll braid your hair."

"Thank god for Lisa," Marge thought quietly to herself as the two stood and left. Marge collapsed in the easy chair, playing with a few strands of hair hanging from her trademark beehive. Trying to save enough money for the lawyer has forced her to put off other things previously taken for granted, among which was her trips to the salon. That, combined with the stress of her inconsiderate bastard of a husband and the prospect of her little boy spending the rest of his life behind bars have left her hair starting to unravel.

She looked down as she twirled her hair in her fingers, the edge of her dress framing her ample breasts like a green horizon. The frustrations mounting in the other aspects of her life certainly was not helping matters. She shifted her legs as she traced the edges of her cleavage with her finger, watching her yellow skin react and raise up in bumps as her fingernail scraped its smooth, supple surface.

Perhaps it was time to take a relaxing bath, Marge thought.

The doorbell rang.

Marge bolted upright. It had been a month since Bart was taken away, but still the sound of the doorbell brought back a mild feeling of dread as the events of that traumatic night played in her mind.

Brushing it off, Marge put aside her thoughts as she rose to answer the door. Two weeks, and still no answer to the ad for Bart's room.

"Well Hi-diddly-i-oh there neighbor-rooski." Ned Flanders.

Marge let out a little disappointed sigh but still managed a slight smile for her long time neighbor. "Hi Ned...can I do something for you?"

Marge looked her pious neighbor over, and for a split second, she wished that he wanted something...her.

"Well Marge, I'd hate to be a Nosy Neville, but I overheard you and Homer...disagreeing." Ned's frown deepened. "You know, if you ever needed help...you know, someone to watch the girls, maybe a bag of groceries here and there...I'm here for you."

Marge smiled through her brief glimmer of disappointment, not that she could expect the kind of help she was needed from such a religiously strict person. "Thank you Ned...but...we'll manage, somehow."

Ned smiled and reminded her the offer would always stand before turning and leaving. Shutting the door behind him, Marge let out a massive sigh and stared at the floor. Her long legs reached towards the ground, ending in her worn but comfortable red house shoes. Kicking them off, she started up the stairs, heading for the bathroom.

Her bare feet barely made a creek as she drew herself up the stairs. At the top, she heard Lisa and Maggie chatting behind Lisa's closed door, Lisa apparently keeping her promise to Maggie.

Marge thanked her lucky stars, she needs some time to herself.

Opening the door to the main bathroom, she closed the door behind her, locking it with a faint click. Sitting on the edge of the linoleum bathtub, she turned the knobs to the water control, adjusting them to find the perfect temperature. curling her toes into the yellow bath rug, standing starkly over the deep blue carpet.

Drawing her fingers through the water, she finally found a temperature she wanted and closed the plug on the drain. Leaving the tub to fill, the room began to fill with a light haze of steam as she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She stared at herself for a moment before removing her hairpins, her beehive collapsing like an avalanche of blue, silky snow. Her hair hung loosely down to her waist, the wavy locks absorbing the moisture in the air as she reached under the sink. Drawing out some candles, she placed them on the back of the toilet, lighting them with a match before turning off the light, the room taking on a whole new tone in the soft glow of the candle light.

After checking on the water level, she unclasped her red bead necklace, drawing it across her neck as she removed it and set it on the vanity, followed by her wedding band and earrings. She sighed as her hazel eyes looked her tired, stressed body over as she reached behind her back, her chest sticking out as she unzipped her trademark green dress. With a wriggle, the dress fell to a heap on the floor as she stood in her cotton panties, her dark-colored nipples standing in stark contrast to the soft, pliant yellow skin of her breasts. She watched as her image in the mirror fogged up.

Shutting off the water to the full tub, she slipped her soft panties off and kicked them into a pile with her dress, running her hands up her legs. Grabbing a razor, she began shaving, including her pubic hairs. Part of her thought it was silly for a woman her age to worry about such things, however she started shaving down there in an attempt to get Homer to pay attention to her again.

Now, she did it because she liked it.

Her task complete, she poured some bath salts into the tub and slinked into the water, her body writhing as she settled into the warm fluid. The therapeutic aroma from the candles flooded her senses as she sank further in, her hair spreading out like a bright blue aura radiating from her body. As her feet touched the other end of the tub, she reclined as the water raised just halfway up her breasts, the droplets glistening on her skin like a thousand jewels.

Marge sighed and closed her eyes, using her hands to spread soothing water across her chest. She let her worries melt away in the steam for a brief respite from the stresses of her self-destructing family life. On the fringe of her hearing she heard Maggie giggle, prompting her to flick the switch of a small white noise machine on the floor next to the tub. As its' smooth gurgling flooded the room, she ensured her reverie would not be disturbed by noises from the outside.

It served a second purpose, that her daughters would not hear what's going on inside.

As she drew her slender hand back to her body, her last thoughts about her retarded husband faded away into the mists. She squeezed the tops of her supple breasts, feeling the flesh roll and contort in her palms. Rolling her grip around, Marge let out a soft whimper as she massaged herself, the water gently sloshing with every pitch and roll her breasts made in the water. She sharply gasped, clenching her lower lip with her teeth as she let one set of fingers squeeze her nipple, feeling the sensitive lump harden and tingle with sensation at the touch.

"Oh..." she moaned softly as she rolled her other nipple between her index and forefinger, squeezing it between her fingers as she firmly fondled her breast. Her other hand began making its way southward, tracing the exquisite contours of her body with her finger. Marge drew circles around the features of her abdomen and navel, her body living proof of what could be done with a proper aerobics routine.

Her body was the envy of even the most lithe college co-ed, much less a mother of three, and as she rolled her breast up to suck her nipple lightly, she knew her time in this little world of hers would only last a little while, and she had to exploit it all she could.

As her hand finally traced further down across her groin, her legs squirmed in the limited room of the tub as she squeezed her fingers between her thighs. She gasped again, letting out a light squeak as her hand reached its destination, stroking up and down her fleshy lips as her back arched, her other hand reactively squeezing her breast even harder. It felt like lighting shot up her spine as she arched her back even further in pleasure, her eyes popping open as she moaned even louder as a thousand nerve endings, seemingly dormant from misuse, flared to life and wracked her body with a wave of pleasure, as if voicing its resentment at over a month of neglect. Her mind became light, unable to conjure a fantasy to accompany her pleasure as her body heaved in the water, spasming like an old motor returning to life as her body's physical needs and desires were brought to the forefront for the first time in a long time.

Marge's hand withdrew from her breast, grasping the side of the bathtub tightly as she used it to steady her quivering form, her other hand drawing back up to her pubis. She panted heavily, her rapid climax surprising her at just how badly she needed this. Closing her eyes again, she sank further into the water, her leg rising from the water and spreading across the tub's edge, pressing her foot against the tile wall and giving her better access to her womanhood. Her entire body sparkled and tingled at her touch now, her hand cupping and squeezing her breasts as they poked above the water's surface like two islands in the sea. Her hand brought one of the islands to her lips, squeezing the breast gently with her teeth before throwing her head back with a ragged "Aaaah...mmmm."

Her other hand found its' way back to her vagina, rubbing it with a firm, circular motion. Her hand began fondling her ample breast with a similar circular motion almost as if on instinct. The gurgling of the white noise machine filled her ears, her entire body twisting with every motion of her hand. A little water sloshed out of the tub, dampening the bath carpet as she parted her fingers, and with them, the fleshy lips protecting her sensitive sex.

Her lips parted, the Simpson matriarch moaned with a loud "Oooohhhhh" as her middle finger probed the pink flesh that reacted with waves of sensation with every twitch. Clenching her teeth, her back arched again, her hand claiming a vice-like grip on her bosom as she found the button she was looking for, her feet pressing hard against the far wall. Marge rubbed her clitoris with her finger, rolling it around like a joystick as her body melted back into the cascade of pleasure. Grasping her nipple firmly with her thumb, she tugged on her breast, rolling the flesh against her palm as she vocalized her pleasure more often and with more volume. Bringing her other leg up out of the water and pressing it against the side of the wall, her body pulsed in sync with every wave of pleasure she delivered herself.

Marge threw her head back so far, it seemed her neck was trying to leap out of her body as she applied both hands to stimulating herself. Her breasts rolled against each other as her chest matched the movements of her body as she writhed in her self pleasure, each stimulated nerve in her bosom adding to the cacophony of sensations her body emitted. Pinching her clitoris in her fingers and rolling it gently, she felt her body on fire as her body arched again, driving her crotch into her palms as another orgasm caused her body to spasm almost uncontrollably.

Her mind was gone now, her other hand sliding over the first one and inserting her index and middle fingers into her quivering hole. Her muscles tightened around them as she drew them in and out, pressing against the highly sensitive flesh as her entire body pulsed in tune with every wave of pleasure. Her moaning had become a melodious song of ecstasy, even overcoming the white noise machine, audible to anyone who would have been standing outside the door.

As one of the warm candles went out, the lights began to dim, Marge opened her eyes, rolling them back as her fingers continued their assault on her senses.

"Aaah...Oooooo...mmm...AAAH...OOOooooOoo..."

Every utterance she made accompanied another pulse of pleasure up her back. She felt her body press against the sides of the tub, trying to open up further, desiring more before reality pulled her back. Her body was a tempest of motion now, moving of it's own volition, the walls of her passage squeezing more and more against her fingers.

It was Marge's body, not her mind that caused her to suddenly disengage her hands. Twisting her body, she grasped the sides of the tub and pulled her quivering form onto the roomier floor, the water from her body soaking the carpet and mats as she laid on her back. Her mind focuses ever so slightly, reaching under the sink and behind the pipe where she keeps a purple dildo hidden.

Breathing heavily, she ran the rubber phallus across her body, squeezing her nipples as her back arched to bring her heaving, panting breasts to her hands. Bringing her knees to her chest, she supported her legs using the tub as her entire body shook in anticipation of this final act of self-gratification. She let out a gritted "MMMmmmm" as she rubbed the tip of the device against the entrance to her vagina, the fluids of her arousal allowing for easy entrance as she steadily guided the toy into her.

"Oooooohhhhhhhh," she quivered as she slowly drew the toy back, and then plunged forward again, the chilling air against her wet skin causing her hairs to stand on end, adding to the sensation. Breathing heavily, her entire body flared in the dim light as the tip pressed against her womb with every stroke.

Flicking a switch, Marge's bosom heaved into the air in an arch as the toy began gyrating and twisting inside her. Her toes curled as the waves of ecstasy enveloped her form, her hips grinding with the toy as she held it steady, her breasts arching into her palm with such force and frequency one would think they were trying to escape.

Marge tried to pull her head up to look, feeling the tug on her hair as it was held fast between her back and the floor. Dropping her hand from her breast, her fingers gripped the bath mat as she drew the toy back for one final thrust, the gyrating shaft setting every inch of her ablaze. She could feel the heat of her body clash with the cold air, her lungs drawing in air through gritted teeth. Her feet drew themselves from the tub edge, perching themselves on her toes on the floor.

"..."

With one mighty thrust, Marge drove the dildo home. As if pressing a button, reality exploded around her as her body was wrapped in her orgasm. She screamed in pleasure as body seemed to levitate, her entire form arching in ecstasy as it appeared to balance completely on her head and toes, a squirt of her love juices erupting from her body and splashing across the tub. The ground below Marge seemed to quake with her, her hand flying from the toy, grasping anything she could to stay attached to it.

As the climax faded, her body returned to the floor, her body falling limp in exhaustion and satisfaction. Her body quivered and heaved, her bust quivering like two bowls of gelatin, as her body sought to stabilize itself as her mind reestablished control. The toy continued to gyrate in her, sending small orgasmic waves up her spine until Marge brought herself to turn it off, withdrawing it from her with a distinctly organic sound.

Her surroundings seeped back into her consciousness as she lay on the floor, her skin glowing in the low light with a faint aura. "Oh god," she muttered to herself, unable to form words to express how long she had waited to do that.

As her mind adjusted itself back in reality, in the back of her mind, she found herself surprised and concerned. For the first time, following this kind of activity...

...she wasn't thinking about Homer.

She wasn't thinking about anybody at all, in fact. Marge did not have time to ponder this, though, as her consciousness snapped to attention with a knock at the door.

"Mom...Mom, are you in there?"

Marge took a moment to get over the freezing panic as Maggie spoke through the locked door. Based on Maggie's questioning, Marge hoped that she didn't hear anything. Pushing the switch on the white noise machine, she took a moment to catch her breath before replying.

"Yes Maggie sweetie...I'm taking a bath, what is it?"

Maggie answered, none the wiser. "Mom, there's a man at the door. He's asking about the room."

While Marge had been laying in the bathroom, her mind awash in her world, Lisa and Maggie were startled by the doorbell ringing. Rising to her feet, Lisa went downstairs to answer it, dressed in her comfortable two-piece pink silk pajamas. Her hair hung from her head loosely, as if Lisa had been preparing to go to bed.

Opening the door, Lisa was confronted by a young man. He didn't appear to be too old, early to mid-20s maybe. He was tall, the MENSA genius figured, a little over six feet. His black hair was cut short and ruffled along with his dirty clothes, which hung worn over his body, which was not particularly buff, but physically fit. In one hand he supported a canvas C-bag that Lisa assumed carried his belongings, and in the other hand was a crumpled newspaper, with Marge's room listing circled in red ink.

Lisa looked up at him. "He's cute," she thought as he smiled down at her. Despite her intelligence, she didn't realize she was blushing brightly as she stared at the smiling stranger.

"Excuse me, young miss, but are your parents available?" Lisa smiled faintly as her blush deepened at the sound of his melodic voice, her body reacting to the attraction her brain was completely missing.

Marge, meanwhile, hurriedly cleaned up the evidence of her deed, draining the tub and putting her artifacts away. Grabbing a towel, she briefly patted down her hair and body before slipping her panties back on. Pulling her dress back up her body, it seemed to catch against her wet skin as she forced it into position, zipping it up. Putting her necklace back on, Marge forgot her wedding band as she opened the door and headed down the stairs.

It had gotten dark out as Marge passed Maggie, reaching the bottom of the stairs. Maggie was dressed in her usual light blue nightgown, gripping the railing with her small fingers as her hair hung in braids around her face. Marge willed her weak legs into functioning properly as she laid eyes on the attractive young man. "Yes...yes sir. Can I help you," she croaked. She felt her face flush hot, almost as flushed as Lisa's, partially from what she just put her body through, but mostly from the image of the stranger now standing in her door. Maggie remained at the top of the stairs, peeking through the slats of the banister at the man.

The man smiled warmly, unbeknownst to them, noting every reaction of the three girls.

The young one's curiosity and mild trepidation, he tells himself, shows a personality that remains unschooled in the ways of the world, and therefore, easy to mold.

The pre-teen's friendly demeanor, as she faced him smiling, rocking slightly on her feet, told him of a girl transforming into a young woman, her head full of fantasy to be exploited.

The mother's inquisitive glances, along with the flushed body, betrayed to him exactly what he needed to know. The water still dripped from Marge's hair, droplets glistening on her shoulders and cleavage as her wet green dress clinged to her body a little more than normal. He had interrupted something, and with the apparent absence of the husband, as well as Marge's missing wedding ring, he figured the buxom housewife to be feeling neglected and frustrated, in more ways than one.

A perfect setup for the task he set out for himself.

"Hello there. My name is Paul. I understand you have a room to rent?"


	3. Tendrils

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 3

_Tendrils_

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Journal Entry 3: Perfect!

The situation is better than I could have hoped! It seems that the son, Bart, is in prison awaiting trial for a felony offense. Marge Simpson put the ad for the room to attract a tenant because she's trying to raise money to pay for her son's defense.

To complicate her situation, it seems her husband, Homer, is a stark raving drunk. According to Marge, he seems to go out every night to get shit-faced, blowing any money they could have used to defend Bart. The situation also seems to have started to affect their ability to keep up on their bills.

This is like a perfect scenario, like manna from heaven. The mother is frustrated and desperate. If I am going to pull this off, if I am going to submit her will to mine, I need to keep her desperate. I need to be a big enough financial resource to make her feel that she's indebted to me, that she needs me to keep what's left of her family afloat, but not so much that all her problems would be solved. I need time to wrap her body around my fingers.

God, her body. Her photos do not do it justice.

The elder daughter, Lisa, seems to be developing quite a body herself, even in this early onstage of puberty. Marge says she's a MENSA-level genius who, despite being twelve, will be starting high school in a few days. She has yet to understand her body and its' new wants and desires. I can use this to my advantage.

The youngest daughter, Maggie, appears ready to enter the second grade. I just have to keep her out of the way.

This is going to work. And then, when I have these women bowing to my every whim...I'll show you, father.

I'll show you that I am the future of our family!

My god, I can smell this woman from here. Her scent...the scent of desire and loss. The scent of a woman ripe for the plucking, to harvest her body and mind at my will, as I wish, when I wish.

But to get into her soul, I must first get into her body. To get into her body, I must get into her mind.

* * *

Paul leaned forward on his elbows as Marge set the steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of him. Setting her own down, she took the seat across from the young man.

It was late at night now. Marge sent the girls to bed an hour ago, as her and this traveler sat in her brightly-lit kitchen, which still seemed to take on a certain gloom when compared to the stark darkness out the window.

"Sorry that took so long," Marge apologized as Paul smiled warmly. He had been waiting in the kitchen while Marge went upstairs to change out of her wet clothes. Paul had passed the time, allowing his mind to wander as he pictured the mother of three slipping out of that wet, green dress. She came back down in an oversized white t-shirt than hung to her knees, the black bra and panties she had changed into barely visible through the fabric. Plus, much to Paul's pleasure, her hair was still hanging down, damp from her "bath."

As she was preparing coffee, she had been explaining the situation to Paul concerning Bart.

"So you see, until the trial is over and Bart comes home," Marge started as she cupped her mug in her hands, "the room will be available. But first, Paul, please. Tell me about yourself."

Paul again flashed a small, warm smile, the kind he had used to disarm countless women before. "To be fair, Ms. Simpson, there's not really much special about me. I come from a small town in northern Michigan nobody has heard of, near the border." He carefully picked every detail, tone and voice inflection to keep the attention of the housewife across from him.

As Marge leaned forward, gazing at him while absently thumbing her coffee mug, Paul could tell it was effective. "I attended school, got a bachelors in psychology, and ever since I've been traveling the country, looking for inspiration for my book."

Marge hummed in interest as she sat up. "What about your family? Brothers and sisters?"

Paul shook his head. "No, I'm afraid my parents died in a boating accident several years ago, and I am an only child."

Marge frowned, touching Paul's hand sympathetically. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

Paul smiled a little bigger, patting Marge's hand with his own. When she realized what she was doing, she blushed slightly and pulled her hand back.

"It's OK though. Their financial assets were placed into trust for me. It's not enough to let me live royally, mind you, but it's enough to let me pursue my dream."

Marge smiled. "I see. So, what brings you to Springfield?"

Paul took a sip of coffee, considering for a moment to tell her the real reason he was there. "I was passing through and I felt like it would be beneficial to my efforts to stay awhile. Plus, it'll be fall before too long, better to get settled before it gets too cold, resume my travels in the spring."

Marge smiled, Paul's emerald-green eyes drawing her attention. "Well Paul, the rent is six hundred a month. That includes the room, utilities and food. If you are alright with that, the room is yours."

Paul nodded his agreement. Pulling out his wallet, he placed six ragged 100-dollar bills on the table. Marge took the money with a smile.

"Excellent. Welcome to our home, Paul," she said, standing and moving slightly to the left of the table. Without taking his eyes off her, Paul smiled quietly as he discretely adjusted his C-bag to match her movement.

"If you'll come with me, I'll show you to your roo-"

Marge was cut short as she stumbled and tripped on Paul's bag, yelping as she fell. With a spin, Paul moved out of his chair and caught the falling housewife, her face turning beet red as her breast "accidentally" fell into one of his hands.

Paul sounded surprised. "Are you alright Ms. Simpson? I'm so sorry about that." He turned her so that her beet-red face was facing him, her chest heaving from the momentary shock from the fall, and the catch.

"I..I'm OK. And please, call me Marge," she stammered as Paul helped her stand straight. Paul repressed a lecherous grin.

Marge straightened out her shirt, as Paul watched her fidget. This seemed to only make her blush more.

"Well, Paul...your room is up the stairs and to the left, first door on your left. The bathroom is straight ahead at the top of the stairs...Lisa's room is next to yours, and Maggie's is across the hall. If they bother you too much, please let me know."

"Thank you...Marge." Paul nodded as he picked up his bag and headed for his room.

Marge leaned on the table, finding herself oddly out of breath.

"Perhaps...I should have him call me Ms. Simpson," she murmured to herself as she regained her composure and started cleaning up the coffee that her and her new tenant had barely touched.

* * *

Paul opened the door quietly, turning on the light as he stepped in and closed it behind him. If he didn't know it, he would have never guessed this room belonged to a teenager. It was immaculately cleaned, a simple bed shoved up against the wall. A desk with a chair stood in the corner by the closet, which was filled with boxes, no doubt Bart's personal belongings. Setting his bag on top of the desk, Paul took stock in the room, inspecting every inch of it. Running his hand along the wall, he paused as his fingers grazed a rough spot. Digging at the plaster patch with his fingernail, he revealed a hastily patched hole.

Peeking in, Paul saw the hole was a peephole, probably put in by Bart, that gave a fair view of the adjoining room, particularly Lisa's bed, where at the moment she was sound asleep. Paul smiled. "This will come in handy," he thought.

Shutting off the light, Paul laid on top of the bed, folding his hands together as he closed his eyes.

* * *

When Paul awoke, he bolted upright. Sunlight was flooding the room. Getting to his feet, he headed back down to the kitchen. On the table was a hastily scribbled note.

"Paul, took the girls out back-to-school shopping. There are left over flapjacks in the microwave. Plates are in the third upper cupboard on the right, silverware in drawer under. Be back about 3. -Ms. Simpson."

Paul cocked an eyebrow and drew a sadistic little grin.

"P.S...If my husband comes home, please tell him we need to talk when I get back."

"Well, well..." Paul thought as he got himself a plate of still-warm pancakes. "Homer didn't come home...and I have a few hours to get my work done..."

After polishing off his breakfast and taking care of his personal chores, Paul set about his "work." Emptying the contents of his bag onto his bed, he waded through a mound of clothes until he came upon a worn laptop case. Opening it, he removed from the top pocket a baggie of what appeared to be small circuit boards with cameras attached.

"Wireless cameras," he muttered to himself. A trick he learned from his college days, someone with skill using a soldering iron and electronics, plus about twenty bucks, can create a simple video camera that can transmit to any computer with the program and blue-tooth receiver.

After a few hours of work in the attic, Paul turned on his computer on the desk in his room, checking the new cameras he laced the house with. "Bathroom...master bathroom...marge, lisa, maggie..." Paul leaned back with a smirk and started with a recorder.

"To control a person, you start by getting into their mind," Paul thought to himself as he set the cameras to record. "To get into their mind...you need to know what they're thinking." Plus, he figured, might be some entertaining video to boot.

Every second of his process will be recorded. Paul's face turned serious and grim, as he considered his father...he will show him how it's done. Every second.

Closing his lid, he checked his watch. 3 PM. Almost if on cue, he heard the door downstairs open and the chatter of girls returning from a fun, stress free day of shopping.

"Now Maggie, make sure you go put your clothes away nice and neat, we want to make sure they look great for school next week." Marge leaned on her knees as her youngest nodded eagerly and went stampeding up the stairs. Straightening her green dress as she stood, she looked up and smiled as Paul appeared at the top of the stairs. "Hello Paul. Find your breakfast alright?"

Paul nodded as he swiveled his body to avoid the stampeding six year old. "Oh yes Marge, they were delicious. Thank you."

Marge smiled as she shifted uncomfortably at Paul's use of her first name. Apparently, he didn't get the hint. She sighed and set her own bag down, her beehive restored to it's natural look. Paul frowned slightly as he descended the stairs.

"Hi," Lisa nervously said to Paul as she entered the house. Pausing briefly in front of him, Paul responded with a smile and a "Hello, Lisa." With a nervous giggle, Lisa blushed beet red and shot up the stairs with her own bags. Marge pursed her lips. She's been around a while, and she can tell when a teenager has a crush. Suddenly this arrangement with Paul as her tenant was making her somewhat uncomfortable, and not just from her daughter's interest in the man.

Marge pushed the thought out of her mind. She needed the money, and nobody else was beating down her door for the room. "For Bart..." she thought with a sigh.

Paul smiled warmly. He needed to adjust the situation a little...a stressed mind was a vulnerable mind. He needed the housewife's mind stressed, if he was to be that relief that would give him his first tendril of control.

"Oh, and Marge..." She squirmed a little at the first name use again, but felt it wasn't worth being rude over. "Homer came home earlier."

Marge's mouth opened a little at Paul's bald-faced lie. "Oh...he did? Where is he?"

"...He left when I told him you wanted to talk. Said that all you ever want to do is talk...said he'll be back later."

Marge gritted her teeth as Paul frowned convincingly. "That man..." she growled. "All he's interested in now is his friends and his bar." She pushed past Paul in a huff, heading straight for the kitchen. Paul, allowing himself a brief grin of success, picked up the groceries she had left behind and followed.

Entering the kitchen, he found the flustered woman hunched over the sink, her nails digging into the counter. Her rapid breathing took the place of any words she wanted to form, too angry to coax her muscles into forming them.

Paul set the groceries on the table and began putting them away, keeping his eyes on the vexed wife.

"It wasn't always like this...sure, he's always liked his beer," Marge croaked as tears began to well in her eyes. "But now...for a long time, it's like he's married to that bar...and I'm just...something else...something he enjoys on the side."

Marge stood up and looked at Paul, tears flowing freely from her tired, hazel eyes as a few strands of succulent blue hair broke free from her tight hairstyle. "I'm just a hobby to him!"

"Bingo," Paul thought behind a false look of concern.

Marge sobbed as she collapsed into the kitchen chair, holding her face in her hands. "I'm sorry Paul...can you just leave me alone for now," she stammered behind heaving sobs. She was embarrassed enough to have this happen in front of the new tenant so soon after his arrival, however she was more embarrassed over the powerlessness she felt over the whole situation.

She gasped slightly as she moved her hands from her face, surprised to instead feel firm human hands on her shoulders.

"Marge," Paul started behind her as he started massaging the back of her shoulders. "I understand, it's all too much for one person to handle...More than they should handle..." Marge body writhed slightly in meek protest, but her mind gave it pause, almost moved to tears that someone...anyone...had seen through her plight.

"It's not fair," Paul continued as he rubbed her silken skin along the base of her neck, her beaded necklace clacking softly as his hands brushed it. "It's not fair to ask you to burden so much by yourself. And since it wouldn't be fair to burden your wonderful daughters..." Marge bit her lip at the prospect of making Lisa and Maggie bear her weight. She closed her eyes and sat up straighter, Paul's fingers kneading the knots from her shoulders, her body shifting with every grip. She could feel her chest getting warmer as her arms dropped limp at her sides.

"...if you need someone to vent to, I can listen to you. We'll call it part of my rent." Paul grinned as Marge rolled her shoulders under his hands, a soft moan escaping her lips.

The sound served to snap Marge back to her senses. Blushing furiously, she stood and stammered, "Thanks Paul...you're very kind...now if you please, I think I'd like to be alone for now...I need to lie down" Without facing him, she turned and rushed up the stairs, the sound of her bedroom door clicking shut echoing through the house.

A moment later, Lisa walked in, glancing over her shoulder. "Hey Paul...what was wrong with my mom?"

Paul smiled warmly as he poured himself a glass of water, sitting down. "She said she wasn't feeling well...went to go lie down."

Lisa pursed her lips, puzzled. She didn't seem to be feeling ill when they got home. Shrugging off her natural suspicion, she poured her own glass of water and sat across from Paul, leaning forward on the table, the white cotton strap of her training bra peeking out under the collar of her form-fitting red t-shirt. Her hair was styled up in it's trademark spikes, curving slightly to give her whole head a resemblance to a spinning wheel. Above her brow, a small red bow was tied into her hair. Her feet fidgeted in her socks as her jeans scraped against the chair from her subtle wiggling.

"So Paul...you getting settled in here?"

Paul smiled. "Yes...I think I will find exactly what I was looking for here."

* * *

Upstairs, Marge shut her bedroom door behind her, leaning against it as her breath caught in her chest. Her knees sank a little as she tried to rationalize her acceptance of Paul's attention. "What are you doing, Marge?"

Her muttered question drifted through the empty room, her body completing its' descent to the floor. She pressed her back to the floor, her heavy breaths heaving her busom up and down as she stared at the ceiling, her hands coming up in an attempt to steady herself.

Her mind raced to find consensus between the conflicting voices of her body and conscience. "Why did you let him do that..." Marge's mind flooded with conflicting thoughts. Her oaths to her husband...her needs as a woman. She placed her hand on her chest, feeling her heart pounding in her ribcage.

Part of her told her that her conflicting emotions were all Homer's fault. Marge was uncomfortable when she wasn't in control. However, control is the one thing she's lacked. Control over her situation, her family...even her own desires.

Marge closed her eyes, feeling her skin tingle across her shoulders and neck, where his hands has skillfully caressed her skin. It was like her body was remembering something it had forgotten, the feeling of a man's touch. Her breath began to steady as she traced her fingertips along her neckline, recalling the sensation of his powerful kneading on her bare flesh.

Her mind, its' dim voice echoing in the background of her consciousness, tried to rationalize her thinking, that Paul was just being friendly and trying to help her relax and calm down as her fingers clenched gently at the base of her neck. Her legs fidgeted gently as her feet slipped free of her red slip-on shoes, her heels drawing slowly across the carpet as her toes flexed in their unconfined freedom.

Marge's breath became deeper and more rhythmic, her fingers delicately tracing up along her collarbone, subconsciously retracing the path Paul's hands took as she caressed the bare skin of her shoulder with her palm. Her gasps became ragged as she drew her hand down her chest, cupping under her breast and squeezing gently, the warm cotton fabric of her dress crinkling as her flesh shifted and flexed. Each compression fired off countless nerves, sending pulses of sensation that made the skin on her back tingle and curl in waves.

"Oh...Paul..."

She squirmed, stretching her back with a soft moan as her thighs rubbed together. Tracing the contours of her breast on her dress, Marge could feel her nipple hardening, pressing against the fabric. She felt the noticeable bump with her fingertips as it ached for release from its' familiar green restraint.

In her mind, her hands became Paul's hands. As if triggering an alarm, Marge suddenly stopped and sighed, panting lightly as she stared at the ceiling, her hands coming to a rest where they lay. "No, Marge...this is wrong. You still love Homer...you shouldn't think like this..."

The camera nestled away in the base of the light fixture recorded everything, every sight and sound for its' master. If a camera could think, it would be sure that its' master would have one or two things to say about that.

* * *

"So...uhhh...tell me about yourself." Lisa giggled a little nervously. She always had problems getting up the nerve to talk to boys, and finally there was one in the house who wouldn't laugh at her. If anything, it would be good practice.

Paul took a sip of his water, recounting his false origins story. Lisa's eyes brightened. "Oh..you went to college? Where? What was your major?"

Paul was taken aback slightly at the enthusiasm she showed when he mentioned college. "Well...I went to the University of Michigan."

Lisa's eyes lowered a little. "Oh," she muttered with a thin disdain. In her mind, anything that wasn't Ivy League was about as good as the local Vo-Tech.

Paul chuckled a little. "Don't get me wrong, it was a good school. Got my masters in Psychology, but I had many good and interesting experiences there. I even worked part time as a masseuse."

Lisa's head cocked quizzically. "A masseuse? That must have been interesting."

"It was," Paul said with a nod. At least that much was true, Paul did know the massage arts, and his experiences with it were certainly interesting. "I used to own my own little table, and I would go around to dorms and apartments. You would be surprised just how many stressed college students would pay for a good massage."

Lisa pursed her lips, patting her fingers on the tablecloth. "Sounds like something my Mom could use." Lisa looked down slightly, the concern for Marge showing in her face.

Paul smiled, as always.

Lisa looked up again. "So, do you still do that?"

"Well, I can't exactly carry an appropriate table in my little bag," Paul replied with a chuckle, "But yes, every now and then I can get someone to pay me a few dollars for a shoulder rub."

Lisa smiled. "That sounds nice."

"Would you like one?

Lisa was taken aback a little at the question, her nervousness as plain as words in a book across her face. "Umm...sure...I guess..."

Paul stood up. "Ok, now stand up straight. Let your arms hang at your sides and relax."

With a scoot, Lisa backed away from the table as Paul moved behind her. Drawing her arms close to her, her mind became a jumble of nervous thoughts.

"Relax, Lisa," Paul said softly as he placed his hands firmly on her shoulders, flexing firmly as they had for Marge not too long ago. Lisa jumped and squeaked a little as he started, but as he kneaded the muscles in her shoulders, Lisa felt herself relaxing as her arms dropped to her sides. She flexed her entire body with a soft, pleased moan, like a cat stretching in the sunlight. Closing her eyes, she briefly stood on her toes as she curled her back to him, the low hills of her developing breasts becoming accented against her shirt.

Paul took a moment to enjoy the view before continuing his explanation. "A few minutes of this is always handy for taking away the stress and strain the day puts on the average human body. Though, it's more effective on a bare shoulder than through clothing."

Lisa giggled a little at the sensation, rolling her shoulders in his grip with a satisfied sigh. "I'll definitely have to get you to do this for my mom."

Paul chuckled a little. "Yes, I suppose so. Though to be honest, my specialty was always the full body massage."

Lisa purred softly, closing her eyes as she felt her bra strap rub against her skin from his efforts. If he was only half as good at it as he was at this shoulder rub, it must feel amazing. "People don't ask you for those?"

Paul chuckled. "Well, a shoulder rub can be done in any condition with just about anyone. A full-body requires a long table, stable enough to support a person lying on it, several towels different oils and minerals..."

Lisa breathed deeply, picturing the experience in her head as Paul rubbed off the sides of her shoulders and slightly down her arms.

"...and you can't wear any clothes."

Lisa's face turned beet red at this, her nervous giggle returning as Paul finished up. "Well...I guess you can't just give those out in public or anything." She turned to face him, her back hunching down and her hands fidgeting behind her back.

Paul chuckled. "I suppose not. In fact, I think the shoulder rub is the only thing I can do through clothes, except for maybe massaging the feet."

Lisa chuckled a little. "That felt great Paul. Thanks."

Paul smiled. "Any time."

"Well, tell Mom that I'm taking Maggie to the park. She had a set of keys made for you, they're in that sack on the counter." With a little spring to her step, Lisa bounded out of the room to collect her sister.

Paul opened the sack and found a fresh set of house keys. Pocketing them, he spied a box of personal checks. Opening it, he noticed the checks were brand new, and the account at the top said "Marge Simpson," no mention of Homer.

Taking the bottom-most book of checks, Paul slipped them into his pocket. They might come in handy later. If Marge established her own checks to try to keep money away from Homer, then the best thing to do might be to get that money to Homer. Behind him, he could hear the two children bounding down the stairs and out the door.

Returning to his room, he opened his computer and started his monitoring program, looking over the past hour or so of footage. He reviewed Marge's actions in her bedroom, his grin widening at the mention of his name.

"Marge...this is wrong...you still love Homer..."

As the words emitted from the speakers over the low electronic crackle, Paul frowned slightly.

This is something he would have to fix.


	4. Breakdown

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 4

_Breakdown_

_

* * *

_

Journal Entry 4: I did not realize that the thrill of the hunt, so to speak, would excite me so much.

These women react to me in ways that I desire, and they are set off on completely different directions. One reacts from the fear of her own truth, another reacts with an endearing curiosity.

If I become too forward, I risk rejection. I need to scale back my prods. I have to remember that it takes time to break someone's will.

My father said my brother was a master of manipulation...he frequently forgets that he obviously wasn't good enough to keep Valtana from putting a knife through his chest. Robert always said that I had a better understanding of what makes a person tick...and like a good clock, the most reliable one is the one made with the most time put into the most painstaking details.

But now to business. I have to isolate these women from their anchors. The boy may take care of himself, but the husband...this...Homer.

I have to make Marge reject him, to choose isolation over her married life...direct intervention may be needed...

* * *

Marge blinked as she opened her eyes. She glanced at her alarm clock. 6 PM. She sat up, shaking her head, her beehive waving like a ship's mast in a stormy sea. "Must have drifted off..." She remembered lying down in her bed to collect her thoughts, at some point she must have fallen asleep.

Standing up, Marge felt the fabric of her dress with her hands. Feeling a little dirty from sleeping in her clothes, Marge winced a little and opened her closet. Reaching behind her, she unzipped her green dress and let it fall to the floor.

The setting sun cast slanted rays of light across her silhouette through her drawn blinds as she leafed through her selection, settling on a white t-shirt and blue work out shorts. Selecting a plain white bra from her underwear drawer, Marge sat on the edge of her bed. Laying back and stretching a little, feeling the comforter crawl against her back, she sighed a little happily from the feeling of the warm rays of the sun splashing across her bare skin.

Sitting up, Marge dressed herself and headed into the hallway. "Lisa? Maggie?" Her calls went unanswered, their rooms empty. Even Paul's room was unoccupied, the only sign of life in there the blinking standby light on his laptop.

"Paul? Anyone here?" Marge's calls continued to go unanswered as she descended the stairs. Reaching the foyer, she noticed a note pinned on the door.

"Marge, Lisa took Maggie to park. I went out to look at town. Should be back after dark."

Marge sighed, her mind conflicted on whether or not she was disappointed Paul was not here. Crumpling the note in her hand, Marge went into the kitchen to begin preparing dinner, figuring the girls would be home soon.

* * *

Paul leaned against the wall, looking across the street at Moe's bar as the neon lights flickered to life as dusk enveloped the landscape. He propped a foot up against the wall, his hands jammed in his pockets. Next to the bar, he spotted a familiar pink sedan parked.

He had noticed the same pink sedan a half hour ago outside of a grungy downtown loft building, driving off after a familiar balding buffoon climbed in with a fat, drunken companion who appeared to have a gas problem.

"Probably spending a few days staying at his friend's place until he thinks Marge has calmed down," he thought to himself. Standing straight, Paul crossed the road and walked into the bar.

The acrid smell of men who believe bathing to be an outdated tradition filled the air. A quick glance revealed a tired-looking bartender, attending to four men hunched together at the bar. One of them, a black male, looked up to see who had come in, the other three still attending to their drinks.

One of them a familiar balding man in a white polo.

"Whaddya have, stranger?" The bartender's voice made Paul's voice crawl, like listening to a Sicilian do an insulting New York Italian impression.

Paul took a seat further down the bar from the group, folding his hands on the bar. "I'll have whatever they're having."

The bartender nodded and began pouring a mug of Duff. "Name's Moe. What's yours?"

Paul accepted the drink as Moe placed it in front of him, placing a 5-dollar bill next to it, which Moe snapped up and stuffed into his apron. "My name's Mike. I'm new here."

The group of drunks muttered their greetings. After a few minutes of silent drinking with the group murmuring amongst themselves, the gassy man in the stained pink polo finally spoke loud enough for Paul to listen in.

"Oh, come on Homer! She's your wife, she'll always be there! But we're your drinking buddies!" The man followed this up with a loud, nauseating belch as Paul quietly ordered himself another beer.

"I know Barney, but she seems really mad this time...the longer I stay away, the madder she usually gets," Homer whined. "Besides, m'out of money."

"Aww, that's no problem Homer," the black man piped up. "Let's get that new guy to buy. You know, the old new-guy-buys-the-booze routine."

The other three seemed to nod their approval to the idea. Paul saw his angle in.

The group shuffled down the bar, closer to Paul as he put on a false inquisitive look, holding his beer firmly. "Yes?"

Homer leaned on the bar, obviously in the early stages of inebriation. "Look...uhh..Mike, was it? We have a little rule for new guys at Moe's. You gotta buy the drinks tonight!"

Paul chuckled a little, feigning being flustered. "Well, if it's the tradition..."

The men's eyes lit up as he seemed to fall for it. They got even more excited as Paul pulled two 100-dollar bills from his pocket and slid it across the bar to Moe. "That should cover things for the night, right?"

Moe whistled as he pocketed the bills. "I think they do, Mike."

For the next four hours, the beer flowed liberally amongst the five. The regulars were so focused on the next round that nobody noticed Paul's considerably lighter pace.

As the 10 PM hour rolled around, the pink-shirt Paul now knew as Barney was passed out on the floor, along with the other two, and Homer was close to joining them.

"You...y'know Mike...she just doesn't trust me! No, she thinks I don't care about the little bastard..." Homer's head wavered as he drunkenly focused on Paul...or something past him, Paul wasn't sure. "But you know...it's Moe's! You know?"

"I know Homer, I know," Paul consoled as he quietly slipped a book of checks into Homer's pocket. "Tell you what. Finish through the tab, sleep it off, and in the morning, you'll have all the perspective you need."

"Y'know...that's a pretty good idea. You're a smart guy Mike." Paul patted Homer on the shoulder as Homer ordered another beer. Stepping over the passed-out patrons, Paul stepped into the warm night air.

It only took him a moment to find a suitable target. The attractive brunette walked towards him, dressed in almost nothing, a leopard-print bikini top, a tight leather miniskirt and fishnet stockings. Her black thigh boots clacked on the sidewalk as she walked up to Paul, her interest obvious as she took a drag on her cigarette.

"Hey there handsome. Name's Carol. You got the green, I got the dream."

Paul thought that line was so tired, he briefly thought she was a cop. "Well, sexy, I got the green...but the dream would be for a friend of mine." He pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket, tossing it to the prostitute. "There's a man in that bar, white shirt, balding, and he could use the attentions of someone like yourself. Think that's enough to get you and him in that pink car around back?"

Carol leafed through the bills, a grin spreading on her face. "Yeah...this should cover it. Don't worry handsome, your friend will get the ride of his life." She stuffed the wad into her purse and turned to enter the bar. "Too bad not all my johns have friends like you."

Paul muttered "Yeah, too bad" as she entered the bar, a grin of his own spreading on his face. As Carol disappeared behind the door, Paul moved across the street. Moving over by the railroad tracks, Paul crouched by a lone tree standing in a grassy lot across from Homer's car. Brushing away a pile of garbage and clippings, Paul pulled up a duffel bag. Opening it, he dug through the change of clothes and musk, pulling out a digital camera. Slinging it over his shoulder, Paul scaled the tree until he was firmly nestled in the foliage.

Drawing his camera and adjusting the zoom, he readied himself as the obviously drunk Homer stumbled from the bar, Carol supporting him as they made their way to the familiar pink sedan that Marge could pick out anywhere.

The car glowed under the light of the street lamp as Paul began taking pictures. He continued as both parties entered the backseat. He continued as Carol removed her top and climbed on top of the inebriated simpleton. He continued as the vehicle began rocking in the pale street light.

Each click of Paul's camera brought him one step closer to his ultimate goal.

When the encounter ended, Paul waited as Carol exited the car, adjusted her clothing and walked off, lighting a cigarette. Paul waited a little while longer until he was convinced Homer had fallen asleep before climbing out of the tree. Grabbing his bag at the base, Paul slinked into an alleyway behind the dumpster.

After changing clothes and covering himself with enough musk to cover the bar stink, Paul tossed his used clothes with the duffel bag in a dumpster. Walking out to the street, he hailed a taxi. Climbing in, he asked to be taken to an open pharmacy.

A few minutes at the digital photo booth and the purchase of a manila envelope later, Paul had exactly what he needed. Sealing the incriminating photo evidence in the envelope, he nonchalantly began his stroll back to Evergreen Terrace.

Arriving at the Simpson residence, Paul quietly let himself inside. The darkened lights betrayed that everyone inside was sleeping. Straining to not make a sound, Paul found a pen and scrawled Marge's name on the front, taking care to not make it look like his handwriting. Sneaking back outside, he placed the envelope in the mailbox.

As Paul went to sleep that night, he fell asleep with a smile on, knowing that all he needed to wait for was time.

* * *

When Marge awoke the next morning, the sun had just began peeking into her bedroom. She stretched lithely under her covers, getting used to not waking up with Homer next to her, smelling of alcohol. As she opened her eyes, she frowned a little as she stood up and stretched completely.

"...have to go find Homer today...we need to work this out...I owe him that much."

Marge stared at her ring finger, playing with her wedding band. She decided to take Ned up on his offer and ask him to watch Lisa and Maggie while she went to find Homer. Besides, Bart had a hearing tomorrow to set a court date, and Marge felt it was important for Homer to be there.

Clapping her hands together in determination, Marge smiled at herself in the mirror. Shedding herself of her night gown and night cap, she paused briefly to check her body over before sliding her panties down and hopping into the shower.

Her morning shower seemed more invigorating today, perhaps part of her resolve to save her marriage. Working up a good lather, she soaped herself over while humming a happy tune. Rinsing herself off, she was smiling brightly by the time she finished, drying herself off thoroughly and spending plenty of time making sure her beehive was up perfectly.

Pulling on her silken pink robe, she pulled it tight around her. It clung to her form, truly flattering her figure as she headed into the hallway. Heading downstairs, she briefly checked to see if Homer had come home last night.

No.

Marge was not deterred. Going into the kitchen, she started a pot of coffee as she got ready to start everyone's day. She hoped Paul took his coffee black, and made a mental note to pick up the creamer she had forgotten yesterday. She made sure Maggie's favorite cereal was on the table for her, and washed off a grapefruit for Lisa, assuming the girls would be awake before too long.

As Marge headed back towards the stairs to get dressed, she heard the newspaper slap against the door. Deciding to go ahead and grab it while she was there, she opened the door and kneeled down to pick it up. As she looked up while standing, she noticed the mail flag on her mail box was up in the pre-dawn light.

"Huh...I don't remember getting mail yesterday," Marge thought. Trotting out to the mailbox, she retrieved the package inside. She looked the manila envelope over thoroughly as she walked back inside with it, thinking it unusual that such a package with just her name scrawled on it, no mailing or return address, would just appear in her mailbox overnight.

Closing the door behind her, Marge set the newspaper on the side table as she paced in the foyer, curious as to the contents of the mysterious package. Breaking the seal, she reached in the envelop and pulled out a stack of photographs. On the top most one, she recognized her husband, Homer, walking with a woman she had never seen before. Confused, she looked at the next photograph, of Homer entering a familiar pink sedan with the woman, in a position that would allow neither of them to drive anywhere.

Marge looked at the next photo.

And the next.

And the next.

The world dropped from under Marge as she felt everything she knew and trusted, everything that she believed to be safe and eternal, shattered and faded into the wind.


	5. Lifeline

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 5

_Lifeline_

* * *

Journal Entry 5: That did the trick.

Her life as she knows it is no more, lying in pieces and sinking into the sands of her sanity.

She's vulnerable, she's impressionable...

She's like putty in my hands.

* * *

Homer parked his car in the driveway sideways, his head splitting. Whether by miracle or skill, he somehow managed to take up as much of the driveway as possible without hitting his wife's red station wagon. His head was splitting open. He remembered the bar...he remembered telling Barney that he had fun spending the past few days with him, but it was time for him to go home and try to save his marriage...

He remembered having a few more rounds...then a few more...and a few more...all courtesy of some guy who walked in...What was his name? Mack? Jack? Ringo?

Homer shook his head and shrugged. No matter. Checking his hair, he slicked back what little was left of it, popped in a breath mint, exited his car and strolled towards the front door ready to lay on the schmooze.

"Hoooooney, I'm hoooooooooooome!"

Homer announced his entry to the home in grand style. His expression changed to perplexed when he noticed Marge cowering on her knees in the middle of the room, her back to him. Her entire body was quivering, one hand clutching her robe, the other clutching something Homer could make out.

Homer closed the door quietly, not noticing the two daughters, alerted by his loud arrival, who appeared at the top of the stairs, ready to bound down to their daddy but given pause when they laid eyes on their mother, instead hovering at the top of the stairs near the banister.

Homer definitely did not notice the man now renting his son's room, standing behind Lisa in blue pinstripe boxers and a wrinkled white t-shirt.

"Marge...Maaaaarge, it's your Homie. You OK?" Homer tiptoed up closer to his wife, trying to get a peek at what she was staring at so intently. "What'cha got there sweetie?"

Marge stopped quivering almost immediately, rising slowly to her feet with a murderous intent that caused Homer to pause and take a step back.

"Don't...SWEETIE...ME!"

Marge turned with a dagger glare at the befuddled man, who peeked a glance at what appeared to be photographs spread on the floor. He recognized a pink car. "Umm...is something wrong Marge?"

Marge was so infuriated she could barely form a coherant thought that involved Homer keeping his head attached to his body. She growled through gritted teeth as she stalked closer to the focus of her rage. "You...I get an envelope in our mailbox of you having...SEX in the back of OUR CAR outside that SLEAZY BAR..."

Lisa covered Maggie's ears.

"...and YOU walk in here, like nothing happened, giving me the SWEETIE? And that my HOMIE is home?" Marge was choking on her own breath. Homer still had no idea what was going on, but he was beginning to get defensive.

"Look, Marge, I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't do anything except hang out with Barney and the guys. Now calm down and let's go talk elsewhere, you're embaressing me in front of the kids." Homer began to stand a little straighter.

Marge was on the verge of spitting fire. "I'm embaressing YOU? YOU're rolling around town sleeping with anything on two legs, and I'm EMBARESSING YOU?" Marge's face was so red Paul thought her hair was going to erupt and spout lava. "WE'RE RENTING OUR SON'S ROOM TO A STRANGER TO MAKE ENDS MEET, YOU'RE GONE FOR DAYS DRINKING AND SCREWING, AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT? THAT STRANGER HAS BEEN MORE OF A FATHER TO OUR GIRLS THAN YOU!"

That last comment hit Homer like a ton of bricks. Furrowing his brow, he shot out and grabbed Marge's wrist. Leaning over her, he forced her to the ground, her robe splaying open to reveal that she forgot her panties getting out of the shower. The only one who noticed was Paul, though. Lisa gasped in horror as Maggie wimpered her mother's name under her breath.

Homer's tone became violent. "STOP THIS MARGE, NOT IN FRONT OF THE KIDS!" Marge yelped in pain as Homer squeezed harder. "I don't know what you saw, but I DIDN'T FUCK ANYBODY!"

Marge winced as Homer bent her arm a little, still stammering, calling him out on his claims. "I saw the pictures you...you...BASTARD!"

That was the last straw. Homer raised his hand, clenched in his fist.

Paul saw the perfect moment to seal the deal.

Lisa was about to scream out, to plead for her father to stop when she saw Paul launch himself past her, sliding down the railing. Landing on his feet, he sprang up and delivered a menacing haymaker of a right hook to Homer's jaw.

The blow sent Homer reeling back, his grip released on Marge's wrist. She held the sore arm close to her chest, hunching up in a defensive position, looking in shock at Paul leaping to her defense. Maggie shirked behind her big sister, Lisa herself close to tears. Both were too scared to do much of anything as Homer crashed into the grandfather clock.

Paul stepped back, placing himself between Marge and Homer, taking an offensive fighting stance. Nobody said a word as Homer stared at his assailant, part of him swearing he had seen the guy before somewhere.

Finally, it was Marge who spoke. Her voice was soft, subdued and brimming with rage. "Homer...get out...and never come back..." Without looking at him, Marge took off her wedding band and threw it at the once again befuddled but loveable oaf.

Homer got to his feet, shocked beyond belief. "But Marge...Honey..."

"GET OUT! Before I ask Paul to throw you out!"

Homer opened his mouth to protest. He glanced at Paul, saw him with his ice-cold stare and fist ready to go, and thought it was better to leave. "OK Marge...I'll leave for now...but you'll come back to your senses...You can find me at Moe's."

The door slammed behind Homer as he walked through the door, Paul relaxing. Marge remained hunched over herself, hugging her arms close as Lisa and Maggie came down the stairs. "Mom, you alright?" Maggie pleaded.

"I'm fine," Marge replied in the same tone, giving her daughters pause. Lisa had never heard this tone from her mother, and it scared her.

Marge spoke again, still not facing anyone. "Paul...can you do me a favor?"

"What, Marge?"

Marge didn't react with her usual uneasyness at the use of her first name. "Take my car. Can you take Lisa and Maggie somewhere? I need to be alone right now."

Paul looked at her. This was a woman that had suffered her last straw. He nodded, confident that she wouldn't do something like call Homer back. "Sure thing Marge. Maggie, Lisa...go get dressed. We'll go get some breakfast, OK?"

Lisa began to speak up in protest. "But mom...dad..."

Marge snapped back, clenching to herself tighter. "JUST DO WHAT I SAY, LISA!"

Lisa's lip quivered at the sharp rebuttal, before drooping her head. She started up the stairs, beginning to unbutton her pink silk pajama top as she turned the corner of the hallway. Maggie followed close behind.

As Paul turned to go upstairs to get dressed, Marge began to sob gently. She didn't notice him grinning as he headed up the stairs.

Paul dressed quickly, adding blue jeans and footwear to his ensemble. Coming back downstairs, he noticed Marge was curled up on the couch in the sitting room. Paul thought of something to say that would help him, but he couldn't think of anything.

"Sometimes," he thought to himself, "silence is the best thing to say."

The steps behind him alerted him to Lisa and Maggie descending the stairs. Maggie was wearing a simple light blue sun dress that hung down below her knees, matching the color of the bows in her pigtails. Lisa's outfit oddly resembled Paul's, a simple white t-shirt and blue jeans.

Paul picked up the keys from the side table. Noticing a cell phone next to the keys, he pocketed that as well. "Marge," he spoke firmly, "I'm taking your cell phone...send a message when you're ready, OK?"

Marge didn't respond. Paul put on his best fake sigh as he lead the girls out the door, softly closing and locking it behind him. As he turned up the walk, he saw a bespectacled man approach at a quick pace with a panicked look on his face.

"Girls, I heard figh-diddly-ighting. Is everything alright?" Ned Flanders paused and looked at Paul, his expression becoming suspicious. "And who are you?"

Before Paul could respond, Lisa pipped up, stepping between Paul and Ned. "It's alright Mr. Flanders. This is Paul. He's renting Bart's room." Lisa stifled back a few tears, resolved to play the strong older sister. "And everything is alright. Mom...mom just kicked Dad out."

Ned looked absolutely horrified. "What? Well what the heck for?"

Lisa looked down, unable to emit the words from her lips.

"For cheating on mom," squeaked Maggie from behind Paul's leg.

Ned looked at all three with an abject look of horror on his face, fighting the urge to just sweep both kids up in a great big hug. "Oh my lord...I don't believe it!"

Paul spoke up. "Mr. Flanders, Ms. Simpson asked to be alone for now. She asked me to take the girls out, take them around town. Distract them a little while she gets her thoughts composed. You understand."

Flanders glanced at Paul with a slight nod. "Yes...Yes, I suppose, if that's what Marge wants." Lisa nodded in confirmation. Flanders sighed, lowering himself down to look at Lisa and Maggie closer to their level. "Well, if any of you need anything, you don't hesitate to give me a ringy-dingy, alright?"

Lisa nodded. "Thanks Mr. Flanders..." With that, the three turned and continued on their way. Climbing into Marge's red station wagon, they backed out and drove off towards the sunrise. As Ned watched Paul drive off, he clicked his tongue and frowned a little.

"Something mighty strange about that young man..."

Meanwhile, in a cold courtroom in Capital City, a scared teenage boy named Bart Simpson glanced around the room. As the gavel sounded, his heart twisted inside his chest when he couldn't find his mom in the gallery.

* * *

Paul got the call later in the evening.

He was relieved that Marge was ready for him to bring the girls home after making sure they were fed dinner. Master plan or no, Paul was woefully inexperienced at entertaining a twelve year old, much less her seven year-old sister.

As the three walked in the front door, Paul let out a small, genuine sigh of exhaustion. "We're back Marge," he called out.

"Thank you Paul," Marge called back from the dining room. "Girls...could you go play out back or something? I need to talk to Paul alone."

Lisa began to protest again. "Mom...about dad..."

Maggie interrupted Lisa, tugging on her arm. "Come on Lis, let's go out back. I want to play in the treehouse."

Lisa smiled at her little sister, appreciating the perspective she sometimes holds on the situation. "Ok Mags, let's go."

As the two filed out back, Paul walked into the dining room. Marge was sitting at the table, still dressed in her robe. It hung a little loosely, her cleavage showing in the middle, framed by strands of blue hair hanging down from her frazzled beehive hairstyle.

She looked like she had been crying the entire time they were gone. Spread out in front of Marge were what appeared to be bank statements.

"He took it Paul," she whimpered as Paul sat across from her. "He took everything. Even the account I kept secret from him, the one I opened with your rent." Marge looked up at her tenant. She would be crying now if she had any tears left to shed. "He cleaned out everything...what am I going to do Paul? How will I take care of my girls? How will I help Bart? I already missed his hearing today..."

Marge put her head in her hands. "God, Paul...what am I going to do?"

Paul leaned on the table. "This is it," he thought. She was desperate and broken, reaching out for the slightest bit of stability in the tempest of her life.

Time to sink in that first hook.

"Marge," Paul started. Marge looked back up at him, her sobbing stilled momentarily.

"I think I'll be staying in this town awhile. I would like to go ahead and pay some of my rent in advance."

Marge sniffled, wiping her eye with the sleeve of her robe. "But Paul...I couldn't. How would you..."

Paul raised his hand and cut her off. "Trust fund, remember? I'll secure a place to stay for a few more months, and you'll have what you'll need to get what you need done, done. We both benefit." Drawing out a checkbook, he cut a check and handed it to Marge. "I believe that covers six months rent, no?"

Marge gasped a little as she was handed the check. "I...um," she stammered. "I'll have to open another new account...god, I'll have to file divorce papers quickly before Homer finds out about it..." She paused and gulped a little, looking up into Paul's emerald eyes.

"Thank you, Paul...I promise, I'll make it up to you somehow."

Paul smiled, genuinely, but not for the reason Marge thought.

"I'm sure you'll figure out something appropriate."


	6. First Steps into Darkness

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 6

_First Steps into Darkness_

_

* * *

_

Journal Entry 6: I have done it...I can't believe it, but it's working...

Marge is now irrevocably tied to me. Until she is done with her divorce, I am her only source of income...The only island in the storm of her life where she and her girls can seek shelter.

I must continue to be patient to find my in with Lisa, but I believe patience is all I need. Even a blind man can see the crush she has on me, and the combination of her developing body and the rigors of high school, especially at her age, will reveal my path in due time.

Maggie, on the other hand...there is no sexual frustration or curiosity to exploit with her...but I shall find a way to bring her under my power once Marge and Lisa are broken...

Marge...she owes me everything she still has...and I will teach her how debts to me are repaid.

* * *

The next week passed like a blur for Marge. With so much to do, she found it difficult to find time to do any serious thinking. Paul's money was safe in a new account, opened under her maiden name. She was distracting herself by throwing her full attention to her children.

As the bus rumbled outside, Marge fussed over her youngest, who squirmed a little in her simple blue dress that resembled something Lisa wore when she was younger. "Now Maggie," the mother said with a faint smile. "You be good for your teachers, OK?" Maggie nodded and skipped out to the bus.

Lisa followed, dressed in a smart school uniform blazer, her plaid skirt ending just above the knees. Marge looked her elder daughter over. "Now Lisa...just remember not to bring any strange boys home."

Lisa blushed a little. "Moooomm..." Marge smiled and kissed her daughter on the cheek. "Now run along, or you'll miss the bus."

As Lisa ran out the door, waving behind her, Marge waved back and shut the door. As it clicked shut, her smile faded to an expression of almost indifference. A week after Homer was kicked out, and she still was not feeling anything. Happiness, sadness, anger, all she felt was hollow. Empty.

Even yesterday, when the restraining order arrived pending the divorce hearing, failed to elicit any feeling in her. Marge brushed a tuft of blue hair out of her face as she walked into the kitchen. Tying a faded pink bandanna into her hair, she pulled on her cleaning gloves and began to clean.

As she moved from room to room, she just silently cleaned things, her familiar green dress absorbing the smell of cleaning solutions. Stopping back in the kitchen, she came across what appeared to be a dry spot of kool-aid.

Grabbing her scrubber brush, she sank to her knees and began working at the spot.

Behind her, Paul walked in, dressed for his day. Hearing his footsteps behind her, Marge did not turn or otherwise react to his entry. "Good morning Paul," was all she said.

Marge did not recall if he replied, she just continued on her scrubbing, her body rocking on its' knees as she threw her weight into the work.

"You know, Marge...you should relax a little."

Marge blinked at the sudden statement just as she felt Paul's hands clasp on her shoulders. Emitting a gasp of surprise. "Paul...what are you..."

Paul interrupted her as his hands began kneading her shoulders, her skin damp from a morning of housework. "It's been hard for you...I see how you push yourself through the paces for your kids' sake, but inside, you're dead."

Paul rubbed the base of her neck, stroking in firm circles as he kneeled down behind Marge, her ragged beehive hair towering over him. Unlike last time, Marge's body offered no reflexive resistance, her mind's screaming becoming dimmer in her head. Her consciousness protested it's old argument about loyalty to her husband.

A new consciousness spoke in her head. "I'm not a wife...I am a woman."

Marge released a pleasing purr as she slowly stripped off her cleaning gloves, letting her arms drop to the sides as Paul caressed her skin down her shoulders and the upper part of her arms. She inhaled deeply through gritted teeth as she shifted on her knees. Marge's back straightened under his skilled hands as her ass cradled itself between her feet, her fingers gently prodding at the edges of her shoes.

"Mmmm..." Marge moaned as her body flexed, feeling Paul's hands slink back up her shoulders, caressing the sides of her neck. With a click, Marge felt her bead necklace loosen from around her neck, the hard red spheres stroking her skin as they slid down her chest, splashing into a sudsy puddle as they clattered to the floor.

Paul grinned as he placed his nose close to Marge's neck, taking a deep whiff of her scent. She squeaked pleasurably as she crooked her head to the side, as if inviting him to partake of everything her body had to offer.

"Excellent," he thought. "Now I just need to get her to come back for more..."

Paul's hands began kneading the front of her shoulders, circling lower as he blew softly on her skin. Marge moaned a soft "Oooohhhh" as her flesh prickled under his breath, her hips swaying gently in a grinding motion.

"I used to work as a masseuse, you know," whispered Paul as he drew his hands to Marge's sides, sliding them under her arms, the crease of her green dress grinding against his palms as her breathing grew faster, her breasts shaking with every gulp of air. "...and they said my greatest skill...was the full-body treatment."

Marge's eyes popped open for an instant, her eyes rolling back as she closed them again with a ragged, impassioned moan, Paul's lips locking firmly onto her neck. She rose a little off her knees, her arms spreading out from the sensation as his hands swept forward, cupping her covered busom firmly in their grip.

Marge threw her head back, her every breath carrying with it a new, lustful sound of pleasure as her flesh pulsed under Paul's gentle, suckling attention. She craned her neck, trying to give him as much access as he wanted to her. She sighed a loud "Aaaaaahhhh..." as she felt his hands slide up and under her dress. Her hips thrust forward at the feel of his grip on her supple chest, leaning back against him as her back curled, the tightness of her dress forcing his hands to crush closer to her. Marge balanced herself on her toes as her heels popped out of her shoes.

Paul moved forward, supporting Marge's weight as her stance straightened again. Her entire body positioned over her toes, her knees swinging out slowly to adjust her balance. As her legs spread, the skirt of her dress slid up her silken thighs, crumpling on her hip, exposing her panties and the growing damp spot they sported. The bare cheeks of her ass pressed into her heels as Marge bit her upper lip.

Paul released the suction hold he had on Marge's neck, admiring the bright red hickey taking shape. He felt her nipples harden under his hands. Flexing his palms, he caught the hard nubs in the folds of his palms. Flexing his fingers forward, he elicited an exasperated moan from the woman he manipulated like a lump of clay. With a twist of Paul's wrists, Marge's breasts were exposed from under their cotton prison, Marge curling her back with a shudder as the sensation of the cool air on her bare breasts made her entire chest tingle.

Whatever protests Marge's consciousness were gone from her mind, which in and of itself was on the verge of going completely out to lunch. Her mind was going a thousand miles an hour, just processing all of the feelings and sensations from Paul's "full body service." As if on its' own accord, Marge hand moved backward, rubbing against the hardening object in Paul's pants.

Paul grinned a little, drawing Marge's body closer to him, craning his head over her shoulder. "Ok, she's getting the desire," he thought to himself as his hand cupped her breast, squeezing and bringing it up towards his face. "Time to wrap this up."

Marge let out a muffled scream of pleasure through gritted teeth as Paul placed his mouth on her breast, suckling and using his tongue to manipulate the flesh. His other hand descended to her leg, drawing his hands up and down the smooth, shaved surface, causing both of her legs to buckle. Her knees quivered noticeably as his fingertips traced up the inside of her thigh and across her hip, running along the top edge of her thong-style white cotton panties.

Marge reacted almost on instinct, her arms coming up and wrapping themselves around Paul's neck, her entire body shivering in anticipation for what her body knew was coming next. Paul rubbed her skin up and down her abdomen, caressing the contours of her stomach. As he ventured further southward, Marge's crotch pressed upward into his hand as he stroked the warm cotton of her panties covering her pubic area.

Marge's body leapt a little as Paul's hands slid over her panties, between her legs. Pressing against her damp spot, her back arched as she writhed in pleasure, shoving more of her breast into Paul's face. "Oooo...oh...Paul..." she muttered as he grasped her nipple in his teeth, holding on firmly as he drew his head up. He felt Marge's fingers curl into his skin, her mouth letting out a low, guttural moan as he stretched her breast out, the supple flesh dangling from the point of her nipple wedged firmly in his teeth.

Paul began rubbing Marge's covered womanhood in a firm circular motion. He felt her grip tighten, her body begin to tense up as it slowly began to arch. Her pelvis pressed further against his hand as she neared climax.

At this point, Paul suddenly stopped moving. Releasing her nipple from his teeth, he removed his hands from her breasts and vagina, placing his hands on the sides of her abdomen as Marge's body writhed and jerked, her entire being in an erotic agony as she hovered near climax, and slowly began drifting down.

"Classic tease and denial," Paul mused to himself in his thoughts. A technique his brother Robert first told him about, useful for both raising his partner's sexual desire and making her more submissive.

To Paul, submission is the first step to control.

Marge's breathing seemed to quicken before it began to slow, her body coming down from the edge as her mind slowly reestablished control over her animalistic instincts. She panted heavily as her lithe form hung limp in Paul's arms.

"There. Does that feel better Marge?" Paul's tone was almost mocking, something that Marge surely would have picked up on in any other situation. Her hands released their grip on him, falling down her body as she caressed her abdomen, feeling the heat of desire and arousal burning inside her as Paul slowly slipped her to the floor, out of his arms. Marge's legs swung out from under her, one of her shoes slipping from her foot as she felt the drying damp spot where she had been cleaning under her shins.

As her head came to a rest on the kitchen floor, Marge looked up at Paul, her mind creating a thousand questions about what just happened. He could see in Marge's face the confusion she felt, unsure if she should be satisfied, pleased, outraged, scared...

...or even hungry for more.

Paul smiled as he stood straight over her, her nipples quivering as her mind struggled to bring her breathing and heart-beat back under control. "I'll be watching TV if you need anything Marge."

And almost as nonchalantly as if he just fixed a sandwich, Paul turned and walked into the den.

Marge remained motionless on the floor, catching her breath along with her thoughts. Crawling to her feet, she absentmindedly grabbed her shoe and necklace, panting as she bustled herself up the stairs, her uncovered breasts bouncing with every step.

Slamming her bedroom door behind her, she didn't even bother to remove her clothes before tumbling into the shower, throwing the cold water knob as far as she could in a frantic twist. The shock of the cold water hitting her skin allowed her mind to coalesce and form interpretable thoughts.

Her body sagged as she sat under the cold stream of water. As the frigid torrent beat her beehive hairstyle down strand by strand, the cleaning bandanna tied in her hair held it above her face, creating a blue curtain for her mind to work in. Marge's green dress darkened as they became waterlogged, clinging to her body as her nipples hardened in the cold.

"Why did you let him do that?" Marge asked herself in her mind. "How could you let him take you so far?"

Marge looked up at the shower head through her soaked hair, her eyes squinting to keep the water and hair out. She wasn't sure what she was more upset about, the fact that Paul became so personal...or that she loved every second of it. Her hand clenched over her pounding heart, her eyes closing as she remembered every touch, every suckle and caress.

Every feeling.

That's what she loved the most, Marge figured as she clasped her hand over the red hickey forming on her neck where Paul had so thoroughly attended to less than ten minutes ago. Ever since Homer left, she had felt dead inside. Her work, her hobbies, her children...nothing elicited an emotion from her.

But what just happened in the kitchen...Marge shuddered as she recalled it, feeling the heat rising again from her body as she stretched under the cold shower. She felt the texture of his hands across her chest...the fire in her belly from his caress.

All she wanted right now was to feel that way again.

"Besides," she justified to herself under her breath, "I still owe him for everything he's done."

In the back of her mind, as she turned the heat up on the shower and unzipped the back of her dress, part of Marge knew that, not that long ago, she wouldn't have even considered the thought.

But she wasn't that woman anymore.

Her soaked green dress collapsed to the floor as she pushed it to the back of the shower with her foot, slipping her remaining shoe off. Untying her bandanna and tossing it into the inundated pile, her hair collapsed around her like a great blue torrent. Marge curled her toes on the slick linoleum, tugging upwards on the straps of her panties, feeling the cold fabric constrict and crush into her crotch before sliding them down and kicking them onto the pile with the rest of her wet clothing.

Picking up her razor and fingering her light layer of pubic hair, Marge felt her arousal rise as she began to clean herself up, preparing for what she intended to do next.

* * *

Lisa chewed on the end of her pencil nervously. She wasn't sure why exactly she thought things would be different, that high schoolers would be more mature and accepting than her old classmates, but now she was discovering that, if anything, her classmates were even more cruel and mocking now that they were all so much older than her.

She jotted down the answer to the question she was staring at. The work, while more challenging, at least wasn't anything to sweat about. Her classmates, on the other hand...

Lisa jumped when a ball of paper smacked her on the forehead, accompanied by a round of giggles and chuckles from both the boys and the girls around her. Although the laughter was silenced by a quick glare from the instructor before returning to his lecture, Lisa discreetly unfurled the paper ball and read the note written inside it.

"Need breast implants? The golf team has some extra balls they can lend you."

Lisa rolled her eyes at the bad joke, but deeper inside her insecurity grew. She hadn't even considered that nobody here would take into account that she was almost half a decade younger than everyone else in her class. She glanced down at her underdeveloped chest, noting the irony that when the first petals of puberty began to bloom in her, she felt scared and confused. Now she just wished it would go faster.

Snapping her book shut as the lunch bell rang, Lisa barely had a chance to stand before a group of girls surrounded her. Lisa figured them to be the "popular clique" of the school. Well-endowed, coated in makeup and hair coloring, expensive-looking jewelry, Lisa pasted on a meek smile. Because, like Mom said, a bully is just a friend you haven't made yet.

"Hi...girls," Lisa softly said, "...mind if I go to lunch with you?"

The girls erupted in laughter as one particularly busty blonde, who Lisa figured was named "Candy," stepped forward and looked down at the preteen. "Yeah right," she said, her fake-tan skin rustling with every smack she took of her gum, her school blazer unbuttoned enough to give the whole world a sample of what she offered. "We don't want people thinking we're babysitters."

The girls laughed again, almost completely drowning out the weak "but..." Lisa offered in protest.

Candy sighed, flicked her head and placed her hands on her hips. "Tell you what Lisa Flatson, you can hang out with us the day you can please a boy better than me."

Lisa cocked her head in confusion as the giggling gaggle walked off and out of the room. "...what do they mean, please a boy?"


	7. Blackout

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 7

_Blackout_

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* * *

_

_Author's Note: Thanks for all the feedback, I'm glad people actually like my dirty little tale so far. I'm sorry this took longer than I expected to write, however I got distracted thinking about where to take the story from here, how to finish it and deciding how much is "too much."_

_I should warn you that this chapter is especially heavy in sexual content, without much plot development. If that kind of thing isn't your bag, I suggest you skip this chapter for now. Otherwise, read on, and thanks for doing so!_

* * *

Paul flicked through the channels with disinterest. Slouching in his seat, he rested his face on his hand as he scrolled through each channel, pausing briefly on the weather report.

"...and this afternoon, severe thunderstorms are expected to roll into the area, bringing heavy rains and lightning expected to last until after midnight..."

Almost as if on cue, Paul jumped a little as a boom of thunder echoed through his brain, nature using the ringing in his brain to sneak in the sounds of torrential rainfall hitting the windows. Paul picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear, making sure the dial tone was still there.

It was.

Paul set the receiver back on its' cradle, curious as to where Marge was. After their encounter in the kitchen, he expected some kind of confrontation once she had regained her senses, the "never again" speech or the "how dare you" speech. He was ready for it. After she didn't appear after ten minutes, he began checking the phone on a regular basis to make sure she wasn't calling the cops, her cell phone still in its' resting place by the front door.

He flipped the channel again with a sigh, and as if by providence, another bolt of lightning struck, shaking the windows on the house as the television screen flashed and went dead with every other light and device in the house.

"Oh great," Paul muttered. Now he'll have to check all his cameras for short circuiting.

Standing up, Paul grabbed a flashlight out of the kitchen drawer as he headed through the dim house towards the basement, the rain and the overcast sky painting the entire house in a deep hue of blue-gray. With the flashlight's help, Paul made it down the basement stairs and over to the fuse box, making sure it wasn't just a blown fuse.

Nope, looks like a total power outage.

After taking a moment to examine the room (particularly an unusually large tiki head in the corner,) Paul headed back upstairs. As he got back into the hallway, he set the flashlight down and wandered into the foyer when he noticed a figure standing at the large bay window in the sitting room, staring out into the rain outside.

Marge stared silently, her arms crossed. Her blue hair was down, clinging tightly to her body as if she had just gotten out of the shower without drying it. Her cotton pink robe was damp from absorbing the moisture from her body. Paul was unable to make out her features in the dark as he walked into the room.

"Marge...are you-"

"Sit down Paul," Marge stated rather forcefully. Paul couldn't tell if she was angry or not as he blinked in confusion. Out of all the reactions he expected, this was not one of them. Deciding to see where this goes, Paul took a seat in the recliner directly across from Marge and the window. With her back to him, her features became even more indistinguishable against the faint light drifting in through the window.

"Paul...you have been more helpful to me than I could have asked from anyone since my husband left...more than a tenant should be to his landlord..."

Paul cocked his head, experiencing uncertainty for the first time.

"...Maggie and Lisa should be home in a few hours...when they get home, you will still be my tenant, and I will still be your landlord...understand?"

Paul blinked, unsure where this was going. "Of course," he replied.

Marge uncrossed her arms, drawing the curtains closed. Though the view of the outside was blocked, the dim light still silhouetted against her figure. Her arms dropped down, bringing her hands in front of her around her hips.

A flash of lightning illuminated Marge's form as she turned and faced Paul. Her face was not one of anger, or fear, or indignation.

Paul suppressed a grin. All he saw painted on her face was unbridled lust and desire.

Marge took a step forward, her long, firm leg emerging from the slit of her robe. The skin shimmered gently in the flash, her toes pressing against the carpet as Paul found himself gripping the arm of the chair slightly. She sashayed her hips with every teasing, sensual step, her hands slowly undoing the knot of her robe sash.

"But for now," Marge whispered as she leaned over him, the edges of her lips teasing his ear as the smell of her perfume filled his nose. "...I am just a woman, thanking a man for everything he has done for her."

Paul gripped the arms of his chair tighter, resisting the urge to put his hands on her to see what Marge had in mind. This didn't fit in to his plan and method for control..."but a little fun never hurt," he reasoned to himself.

Marge released her grip on her robe, the knot loosened but not undone. Placing her hands on Paul's broad shoulders, Marge nibbled on his ear lobe as she drew her body downward, her loose robe yielding a generous helping of her cleavage for Paul to admire.

Drawing herself down, Marge traced her hands down the front of his body as she got on her knees between his legs, her hands clasping the band of his jeans. With expert precision, her deft fingers alleviated Paul's pants of their clasping, slowly unzipping them as she took a deep whiff of his musky scent. Pulling back, Marge grasped the band of his underwear along with Paul's jeans and pulled them down, her lowering arms causing her robe to slip off her shoulder, revealing even more of her ample bust to Paul's hungry view.

Marge sat in shock and almost a little intimidation at the size of Paul's erection. Over her past years of marriage, she had become accustomed to Homer's...substandard size. As she drew her face in closer, she closed her eyes as she steadied the shaft with her hand, lightly kissing the base as she caressed the hilt with her tongue.

As Paul groaned in satisfaction at her work, Marge grew bolder as she cupped his testicles with her free hand, her other hand starting a slow and delicate stroking of his upper shaft as she suckled a little bit on the flesh of his penis. Rising up, she drew her tongue up the length of his member as she came to the mushroom-shaped tip, kissing it gently as her hand stroked him more firmly as it dropped down his length.

As Marge wrapped her lips around the tip of his erection, she could feel it pulsing in her mouth. She drew her lips up and down on the head, suckling lightly as she felt Paul shift and squirm in front of her. She felt Paul's hand touch the top of her head, stroking it lightly as it helped guide her strokes, her fingers flexing around his hard on.

With every stroke of her mouth, Marge brought a little more of him into his mouth, surprising herself with her ability to accommodate his length and girth. Paul positioned both of his hands more to the sides, clenching her hair in his fingers as he began forcefully guiding her strokes. Marge gagged a little as his penis invaded her throat more and more, her eyes popping open in shock and wonder as her lower lip began grazing the flexible skin of his ball-sack.

Placing her hands on his thighs to steady herself, Marge's fingernails dug into Paul's flesh, her muffled moan vibrating against his member as she quickened her pace. Filthy slurping sounds became louder as her spit began leaking from the sides of her mouth, which was stretched to capacity as she felt his penis press against the back of her throat, her body bending and sliding to accept the organ down the shaft of her throat.

Marge's gag reflex wailed in agony as Paul pushed her face into his crotch, his pubic hairs tickling her nose as he stood, feeling him pulsing inside her neck. Her moans became louder as her body began to squirm from the lack of air. As Paul drew his shaft back slowly to the tip, her lungs hungrily gulped air through her nose and mouth.

Gripping her head tightly, Paul thrust himself as far as he could into Marge's throat, her arms going limp at her sides as she lost all semblance of control. As his forceful thrusts repeatedly violated her throat, Marge's eyes rolled back as she moaned a gargled gasp of pleasure as the world began to melt around her from her erratic, limited oxygen supply, tears rolling from her face more on reflex than pain or sadness.

With a final push, Paul pressed his pelvis forward to get as much penetration as he could as he climaxed, the pulsing member in Marge's throat throbbing as she gagged on his ejaculate, feeling his hot seed splash into her throat and slide into her stomach. As her world began to go dark, Paul retracted his erection, a few more spurts of cum shooting onto Marge's face as her body hungrily gulped for air.

Falling onto her hands, Marge breathed heavily as her body became reacquainted with air. After catching her breath, without a word she looked up at Paul with only one thing on her face.

A desire for more.

Her skin burned with the heat of desire as she slowly stood, wiping the cum from her face with her robe sleeve. As Paul kicked the pants bundled at his feet off, she brushed her body against his, removing the last few knots holding her robe closed. As it fell open, exposing her midriff and her freshly shaved pubis, Marge took a step backwards as Paul pulled his shirt over his head. While not super-cut, Marge smiled with lust as she admired his toned chest and firm arms.

Turning around, her back was to Paul as he got the shirt over his head, tossing it across the couch. Dropping her arms, Marge allowed her robe to collapse to the ground, the steady drone of the rain accenting the flash of lightning that silhouetted her figure, her firm, tight ass swaying gently as if performing a dance of seduction.

Paul grinned as he considered the good choice he made for his scheme. Despite bearing three children and being in her late thirties, Marge's body was an incredible specimen, just enough fat to give her some curve without being flabby. She turned around and faced him again, her nipples already erect, the slight sheen from the juices leaking from her sex catching the corner of Paul's eye as the lightning flashed.

The booming thunder filled Marge's ears as she caressed her ample, voluminous breasts, pressing them together as she re-approached the man, silently bidding him to partake of the bounty she was offering him. Not needing to ask twice, Paul pressed her body against his, Marge shivering as she felt his hardness press against her abdomen as it became sandwiched between their bodies. Pushing forward, Marge was leaned backwards as she threw an arm around Paul's neck, his head craning down as he kissed the top of the crevasse of her cleavage

Her breasts shifted to the side from the gravity, giving Paul more room to work with as his expert tongue traced the contours of her central chest with a practiced touch, eliciting a low moan from Marge. Her mind tried valiantly to regain control of the situation, however after so many years of marriage to a man who, in Marge's mind, cared only for his pleasures, she was loving every second of this man who catered to her desires, and though she was loathe to admit it vocally, Marge was a woman who took great pleasure from her breasts being attended to.

She inhaled deeply through gritted teeth as Paul's hands went back to work, one wrapping around her waist to keep her close to him, the other snaking up her side and wrapping itself around her quivering mound, flexing the fatty tissue firmly in its' expert grip, stretching and compressing the sensitive nerve endings as he suckled on the flesh in the middle, sending waves of pleasure across Marge's chest and up and down her spine.

"Oh...oooooooohhh...oh God...ah..."

As her pleasure grew, Marge subconsciously began to reassert her control as she let out a ragged groan of pleasure, standing straight as she pushed Paul away from her and back into his seat. As Paul bounced lightly in the chair, Marge gave him a seductive glance as her body writhed into the seat with him, kneeling on the cushion as she felt his erection pressed down, using the crack of her ass as a guide as she sat flat upon his lap, his shaft cradled by the pulsing lips of her labia.

Marge pressed her chest up towards Paul's face as she grasped the seat's back, his hands tracing around her hips as they rose up clamped firmly on her supple, soft hills, her rock-hard nipples popping between his fingers as he kneaded them like a cat pawing in gratitude for a good scratch.

Marge threw her head back with a satisfied "Mmmmmmm" behind her tightly-sealed lips, her pussy sliding on his shaft, spreading its' juices on his member as her body wriggled under his practiced hands. She cooed as her back arched, her body flexing with the pulses of pleasure he was inflicting on her. As he squeezed her nipples between his fingers, Marge returned the squeeze to his hips through her legs, beads of sweat forming all over her body.

"ooooh...now suck them..."

Part of Marge was genuinely shocked at her request. She was surprised at what this man who was not Homer was drawing out of her, concerns that were quickly eradicated when the raven-haired young man that now attended to her fulfilled her request. The rapport of the rain on the bay window grew louder as he drew her closer, his mouth enclosing about her areola and suckling firmly, her erect nipple squeezed against the roof of his mouth.

"...no...more...the whole thing..."

Any demure restraints Marge had on her fetish were gone now as she pressed her chest to Paul's face, feeling his heavy breathing escape through his nose on her skin as his mouth opened wider, accepting as much of her tit into his mouth as she could fit. She yelped in ecstasy as his mouth made its' subtle adjustments to the sweet, sweaty mound now filling it, his sucking motions increasing in force as every pinch and compression of her breast brought forth a new cry of pleasure.

Marge's body moved on instinct now, her hips grinding fiercely against the length of his member, shuddering as she swore she felt the tip of her nipple graze the back of his throat. She emitted a high-pitched cry as she felt her supple flesh pulse against his teeth, pinching down as he formed a strong suction hold on her breast, tugging it back. Marge yelped and moaned passionately as her hands gripped his shoulders, gritting her teeth as his other hand dug into her free breast at the base, grabbing tightly and pulling up and away.

Marge hugged his head as she howled in pleasure, her entire body shaking as her orgasm wracked her body and senses. Paul felt a squirt of fluid against his erection as her hips pressed down tightly on him, and taking it as a signal, released her breasts from his hands and mouth with a wet, indecent popping sound. Marge's chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing, her hot chest quivering against his face.

To Paul's surprise, Marge withdrew from his lap, his erection standing back up, glistening from her juices in the lightning flash. Still ahold of his shoulders, Marge seemed to pull him up, and in one fell swoop, practically threw him onto the couch. By the time he looked up, Marge had re-mounted him, teasing the tip of his pole with her quivering, fleshy lips as she placed her hands on his abdomen for support, her thoroughly-pleasured breasts heaving with every lusty, hungry breath she took.

Swiveling her hips to draw him more on target, all it took was a light push, and she inserted him into herself.

"AAAAAaah..."

As the tip of his penis slid into her, Marge threw her head back, closing her eyes as her body quivered, the long-absent sensation of a warm, pulsing phallus inside her nearly sending her back into orgasm. She let out a long, drawn out moan as she slowly took in his full length, gasping as she felt her insides adjust as his penis pressed up against her womb. Her body writhed slowly as she settled atop him, her arms coming up behind her head as she fluffed out her hair, a satisfied grin crossing her face as her chest protruded out from her arch.

Placing her hands in front of her on his abdomen, Marge began slowly drawing her hips up and down, feeling his member slide in and out of her womanly chamber. A guttural "Aaaah" emitted from her throat as she grinned from the sensation, her slow, rhythmic bouncing exciting her nerves as she felt her body melt into a singular existence of pleasure.

Paul placed his hand on her gyrating hips, his grip guiding the strokes of her body as he grunted in satisfaction. Marge clasped her breasts in the palm of her hands and squeezed, pulling them gently apart from each other as her humping picked up speed and forcefulness, obscene noises from their thrusting filling their ears between the thunderclaps.

"Guuuuahooooh..."

Marge's impassioned utterances began to become nonsensical as her hair bobbed with the rhythm of her body, her head rolling on her neck seemingly in sync with the rolling of her breasts in her hands. She felt her ass slapping against his thighs, the two orbs below his shaft tickling her nethers. She arched her back further as additional waves of ecstasy traveled from her engorged sex up her back, her hands grasping his thighs as her parted breasts flopped with her every thrust of his pelvis into hers, and vice versa.

Paul felt the walls of Marge's entrance tighten around his member. He grasped her hips to keep her steady as she threw her head back in delight, her hair flying around her in the thunderlight as her scream of ecstasy was drowned out by the echoing clap. Her body spasmed as waves of pleasure rushed up her spine, her eyes rolling back slightly as she lurched her form forward, her gaze fixating on the young man who continued to work under her.

"Don't...not inside..."

Marge grunted her instructions out through gritted teeth, burying her face into his neck as her senses struggled to process Paul's continued physical persistence, the overload only complicated as her breasts exploded in a fire of stimulation as they rubbed against his body. He gritted his teeth as his grip tightened along with her own, her long blue locks falling into his eyes.

Without a word, Paul stopped moving and began to sit up. Marge drew back a little, her eyes opening in surprise as he gently withdrew her off him, his hands gripping her on the shoulders.

"I'm not done yet."

Marge squeaked, her eyes opening wider, partially from fear, partially from wonder as Paul roughly moved her from the couch, falling with her onto the floor. Marge felt the soft fabric of her robe under her head as she looked up at him, his hands sliding down her body, his fingers leaving a trail of electric sensation down her skin. Gripping her legs, he brought them over his shoulders as he reinserted. Marge bit her lip, her pulsating sex clasping around him as he pushed back in.

Her toes curled as her feet bounced in the air in rhythm with his body, his movements orchestrating a symphony of noise and sensation in her mind. As Paul reached forward and balanced himself by grasping her breasts, Marge moaned loudly as her fingers curled into the carpet, the sound of his sweat-laden body slapping against hers piercing through her senses more than the storm outside. Her abdomen screamed in heat at her as her eyes rolled back into her head, her back arching under him as she was overcome again with orgasm.

Gritting his teeth, Paul withdrew from Marge as her insides spasmed around him, releasing her legs as her body convulsed in an overload of ecstasy below him. Gripping his member in his hand, Paul gave it a few swift strokes to finish himself off as he sprayed his ejaculate across her heaving chest, his own groan joining Marge's panting.

The two remained still for a moment as the power flickered back on, Marge's gaze locked at the ceiling as her mind struggled to bring her body back under control. Paul's grip relaxed as he stood, panting, looking down at the exhausted woman below him, white strands of his sperm rising and falling with her heaving chest, her legs bent as her feet found firm planting on the carpet below her, her robe gripped tightly in her fist.

"Remember," she stammered between her breaths, "...from now on...landlord..."

"And tenant," Paul finished. He gathered his clothing and drew his fatigued body up the stairs, heading for the shower.

"We'll see how long that lasts," he muttered under his breath.


	8. Discovery

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 8

_Discovery_

_

* * *

_

The lights in the living room were turned off, the massive bay windows leaking in the dim light outside through the falling mountain snow. A young man, no older than 10, sat expectantly on the floor at the feet of an older man, easily in his early twenties, sitting in a plush leather seat. The older man's face was chiseled and firm, like something only seen in the movies. His short black bangs hung over his eyes as he looked down at his younger counterpart, whose own black hair was spiked up.

Between them was a young woman, couldn't be over 17 years old. Her long blond locks hung over the front of her body, the hair obscuring her nipples the only thing that covered her. She clinged to the older man's leg like a whipped dog, her fingers digging into his slacks.

"You see, Little T," the older man started, "That's our family legacy. Dad taught me, just as Grandfather taught him, and so on." He looked down at the younger counterpart, ruffling the woman's hair.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, I know...but why?"

The elder smirked, tapping the woman on the head. Without a word, the teenager looked up at him with vapid, listless azure eyes, rising up over his lap as she unbuckled his pants. In front of the child, she slid his pants down and began to fellate her "master."

"Little T," he started over the slurping sound of the girl attending to his member, "only a few men can sit at the top of the world, and they all sit upon thrones of those lesser than them. The greatest are defined by how well they can make others do what they want."

The child nodded enthusiastically, the actions in front of him not fazing him in the slightest.

The older man continued. "Now nobody is born with the knowledge, so they have to learn. And if you can control a woman's heart and mind, you can influence anything to your whim." He smiled warmly at the boy as the woman shoved his erection into her throat, gagging on the girth. "And don't worry little bro', I'll teach you everything I know."

The boy smiled, genuinely excited. "Wow...really? You're so smart Robert..."

* * *

Paul sat up with a bolt, breathing heavily as he recollected his senses. He gripped the bedsheets under his hands.

He relaxed as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. Following his shower, he came into his room to change clothes and must have fallen asleep.

"But...why would I dream about that," he thought to himself.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and sunk them into the carpet. He brushed his pants off as he looked around for the shirt he planned to wear. As he picked it up off the floor, he heard his door creak. Looking up, he saw Lisa peeking around it, her face beet red as she meekly opened it a little more. She had changed out of her school uniform and was wearing her favorite red t-shirt and a set of simple black athletic shorts, the high cut showing off her thin but smooth legs as her bare feet twisted in the carpet. Her hair was damp, probably because of the heavy rain that still rasped at his window.

Paul wasn't sure how long she had been there, but it was obvious she hadn't just walked up. "Umm...mom says dinner will be ready soon," she stammered meekly. As Paul stood, his shirt gripped in his hand, Lisa's blush became even brighter, something Paul considered to be outside the realm of biological possibility at this point.

"Alright, I'll be right down," he replied as he pulled his shirt over his head.

"Umm," Lisa continued, "Paul...later on...can I ask you something?"

Paul blinked, a little taken aback. "Well, why can't you ask me now?"

Lisa gulped, looking down at the floor as her feet fidgeted. "It's got to be later, ok?"

Paul shrugged, unsure where this was going. "Alright. Now come on, I'm hungry."

With a nod, Lisa moved away as the two descended the stairs, and not a moment too soon as they heard Maggie yell from the dining room "Dinner's ready!"

As Paul entered the dining room behind Lisa, he looked directly at Marge. She looked away as he fixed his gaze on her, her cheeks turning pink as she no doubt recalled the events from a few hours ago. Her simple green dress hung from her as it always does, her hair drawn back into her trademark beehive. "Enjoy your nap Paul?" she asked.

"Yes," Paul started, his tone of voice causing Marge to squirm a little. "...it was outstanding."

As Paul took his seat, across from Lisa and Marge, they silently dug into the meal the housewife had prepared, nobody really talking, with both women avoiding Paul's gaze when he looked at them.

"So, what did everyone do today?" Maggie looked up as she asked, wanting to break the silence.

"Your mom," Paul thought silently to himself as Marge cleared her throat, pasting on a forced smile.

"Nothing special Maggie. Just...cleaning."

Maggie, oblivious to her mother's distressed half-truth, turned to the young man next to her, her white ankle-length t-shirt twisting with her body. "And what about you Mister Paul?"

Paul chuckled a little. "Just working on my book...and please, just call me Paul."

Maggie waited a moment as nobody else talked up over their food, throwing an indignant look across her face as she eventually returned to her meal.

As the meal concluded, Lisa and Maggie cleared the table as they went into the kitchen to do the laundry. As Marge and Paul stood, Marge placed her fingertips on the tabletop as she stared down at them. "So...Paul, how was the meal?"

She looked up to see that Paul had moved, a fact confirmed as she felt his hands land on her shoulders, gripping tightly as his body pressed up against her back, pinning her between him and the table. Marge looked back at him in shock and surprise. "The dinner was lovely," he whispered in her ear, her skin tingling from his breath.

"Paul!" Marge silently exclaimed. "I told you..."

Marge was cut off as Paul kneaded the flesh of her arms, drawing his face close to hers. Marge's breath accelerated as his scent pervaded her nostrils, the fresh memories of the sheer bliss she experienced that afternoon returning to the forefront of her mind.

"I told you," she stammered meekly, tasting his breath. "...my girls..."

Paul looked up at the kitchen, the chatter of Marge's daughters echoing from within over the clanking of dishes being washed. He released Marge and stepped back, Marge leaning on the table as she caught her breath. She turned to face him, her face a mix of anger at Paul's violation of their agreement, and the excitement her subconscious reveled in.

"I'll pretend that didn't happen," Marge muttered, her tone of voice not making either of them confident that she was truly upset. "Now...I need to talk to you about tomorrow."

"Yeah?" Paul replied, as if nothing had happened.

This lack of concern for his actions made Marge a little uneasy and excited at the same time. Shaking her head, she continued. "Tomorrow I have to go to Capital City to meet with Bart's lawyer...and then the next day he has a hearing on a motion to dismiss..." She looked up at her tenant. "I can't have the girls miss any school...I planned to spend the night in Capital City, would you be comfortable keeping an eye on Lisa and Maggie while I was away?"

Paul smiled genuinely. "Of course Marge."

Marge was uncertain if this was a good idea, but she pushed the concerns out of her mind. She didn't have much choice in the matter, Homer was barred from seeing the girls due to the restraining order, and she didn't want to impose on her neighbors...

"Alright Paul...I'm taking a cab to Capital City, so you'll have the car...before I leave, I'll post a list with the girls' schedule, emergency contacts and other information you'll need."

Paul nodded, half listening to as the two entered the kitchen. He nearly slipped on the sudsy water pile as Marge's face twisted into one of annoyance. Before her, the two girls stood staring up at their mother, covered head to toe in frothy, soapy dishwater.

Maggie pointed at her sister. "She started it."

* * *

Paul let out a disgruntled sigh as he stared at his laptop screen.

"Great...every single camera shorted out." Paul clicked his tongue as he envisioned all the work he was going to have to do now.

With a sigh, he clicked his laptop shut and reclined in his chair, stroking the bridge of his nose. He checked his watch. 1 AM. Rising out of his chair, he kicked his pants and shirt off and sat on the edge of his bed in his dark gray pinstripe boxers when he heard a knock at his door.

Paul blinked. Was it Marge? "Yes?"

The door clicked as the latch turned, opening slowly. A young girl's voice muttered, whisper-quiet. "Paul...you awake?"

Paul grinned in the dark, his memory being sparked. "Yes Lisa. What is it?"

The young woman opened the door a little more, visible behind the darkness of the hallway. "Can I come in?" she whispered.

"I suppose..."

Lisa gulped and slipped into Paul's room, taking care to close the door as quietly as possible behind her. She was dressed in her pink button-down pajama top and bottoms, the legs bunching at her ankles and slipping under her bare feet. Her blond hair hung down in disheveled strands around her face as she blushed, seeing for the first time a man wearing so little who she didn't consider a family member.

Lisa fidgeted in place, her hands folding over each other in front of her chest, forcing Paul to break the silence. "Alright Lisa...what did you have to ask me that you had to wait until everyone in the house was asleep?"

Lisa timidly drew closer. "Umm...well...I wanted to ask you something."

Paul deadpanned. "I know. What is it?"

Lisa whimpered, her logical mind overtaken by a nervousness and reservation befitting her age. "Well...there were these girls at school today..."

Paul raised his hand, interrupting Lisa. "Look, if you don't calm down, it'll be dawn before you manage to ask me anything." Lowering his hand, he patted a spot on his bed next to him. "Now come over here, take a seat, take a deep breath and ask me what you need to ask."

With more trepidation than a man walking a plank, Lisa shuffled over and sat on the bed next to Paul. When she had come to Bart asking for advice, sitting on his bed always made her more at ease, and although her brother had been replaced with this rather handsome wanderer, the familiar act helped her collect her nerves, if only a little.

Lisa let out a deep sigh. "You know, I used to come to Bart all the time like this when I needed help with boys...but he always told me to stay away from them..." She giggled a little as she reminisced the good times with her older brother.

Paul blinked. "So you wanted to ask me about a boy?"

Lisa shirked a little, her nervousness reasserting itself. "Well...like I said, there are these girls at school...I want to be friends with them...but they said that I can't be friends with them until..."

"Until what?"

Lisa's already hushed tone became even quieter and higher pitched. "...until I know how to pleasure a boy."

Paul had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. "So...what, you don't know what she means by that?"

Lisa shook her head. "I don't understand it! Why is that so important to them? How would I even learn such a thing?"

Paul smiled, his mind finally grasping the breadth of the situation. "Lisa, they say that to get along, you have to play along. This is what kids in high school do, and if you want to fit in, you have to be like them."

Lisa paled a little. "But..."

"I've seen it a lot with geniuses like you," Paul interrupted. "Book-smarts are plentiful, but it's hard for you to identify and get along with people."

"Paul thinks I'm a genius?" Lisa thought to herself. Her blanching skin returned to it's previous blushed state.

Paul adjusted himself on the bed. "As for learning that kind of stuff...well, they don't write a lot of books on how that you can find at a library, so..."

Paul saw his opening.

"...the best way to learn how to please a boy is to learn from a teacher."

"Huh?" Lisa exclaimed, slapping her hand over her mouth as she reeled in her voice's volume. After remaining quiet long enough to be confident she hadn't awakened anyone else, Lisa removed her hand and continued in a hushed voice. "Where would I even get a teacher for that?"

Bingo.

Without a word, Paul placed a hand on Lisa's cheek, the young blossom growing silent at his touch. Sliding his hand around the back of her head, he drew the young girl's face closer to his and pressed her lips to his own.

Lisa went bug-eyed at the sensation and surprise as she experienced her first kiss, her mind awash in a cacophony of thoughts and reactions, ranging from fear to logical analysis. As her eyes slowly drifted closed as she felt his tongue graze hers, however, the overwhelming majority of her mind felt a sheer, electrifying rush of a fantasy realized.

As Paul broke the kiss, slowly drawing Lisa's face away from his own, her eyes fluttered open as the increasingly marginalized logic center of her brain reminded her to breathe. She drew in a sharp breath, looking up at the warm smiling face filling her vision as the rest of her senses reestablished that there was a world out beyond the two of them at that moment.

Paul smiled and traced his hand away from her head, stroking under her chin as he did so. "Tell you what...if it's what you want, I can teach you...alright?"

"Alright," Lisa reflexively squeaked through a meek nod. She scarcely heard herself over the sound of her pounding heart, a new and unusual sensation rising in her belly. As her mind raced to process these new sensations, she shifted nervously. "Umm..." she exasperated, and after looking up at Paul again, suddenly rose from the bed and scampered out of the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.

Paul grinned as he shifted his body, turning and removing the picture he was using to cover the peep hole as he peeked at just what reactions his actions have wrought.

As Lisa closed her door behind her, she pressed her back to it, her knees buckling as she struggled to catch her breath.

"He kissed me..." she muttered to herself, scarcely able to believe it. She clinched the seam of buttons over her heart in her fist, reliving the bliss of the moment in her mind with a girlish giggle. Releasing her top, she drew herself back up and flopped herself on her bed, placing her hand over her hard-beating heart as she stared at the ceiling. Her legs hung off the bed, rubbing together as her senses quietly processed an odd, moist feeling growing between them.

Clenching her fist, the sensation in her belly began to spread upward into her chest, the smooth fabric drawing across her skin as the top few buttons popped loose. The cool night air splashed onto the exposed skin of the center of her chest, causing Lisa to squirm a little on her bed.

Lisa bit her lower lip, her eyes drifting shut as she felt a dull ache rise from two points on her chest. Reaching through the opening under her top, the young woman twitched as her finger pressed against the hard nipple quivering between the pink fabric and the sensitive flesh below. She drew in a sharp breath as her eyes opened again, straining to process the new, almost electric sensation the touch elicited.

She never knew her body could act this way before. As Lisa felt the lump in her fingertips, she gave her nipple a soft squeeze. It was like she set fire to her skin as she drew in a loud gasp, craning her head forward as her entire body flexed and curved upward from the sensation, her muscles spasming and her grip growing even tighter. Her other hand, with the other end of her top in its' palm, gripped tightly and jerked to the side, the remaining buttons of her top popping open with a cascade of quiet clicks.

Lisa squirmed as she felt the cool air splash onto her exposed breast, the still-developing mounds barely rising above the contours of her belly. She felt the sensitive flesh adjust to the contours of her hand as her chest heaved frantically under it, her palms flexing and adding to the confusion and sensation pervading her nervous system.

The young girl pursed her lips together to suppress a high-pitched moan, unaware of the audience viewing her show through the peephole to the neighboring room. Releasing her grip on the fabric, her pajama top laid splayed below her as her freed hand scraped the pulsing flesh of her abdomen. Almost as if on instinct, Lisa slid her hand under her pink pajama bottoms, her push southward slowing as she looked down at what she was doing, the logical part of her mind like a spectator as the rest of her discovered feeling locked deep within her genetic memory.

Lisa inhaled sharply as her fingertips grazed her skin, pushing through the sparse hairs of her emerging pubis, following the curve around between her legs. Her breathing quickened, her exploration of her body sparking waves of sensation up her body as her fingers drew closer to their mysterious destination.

Her index finger found the target Lisa did not know she was searching for, caressing the small bump as her fingernail scraped against it.

The sudden explosion of electricity up her back was too much for Lisa to handle, her entire body buckling as she opened her mouth wide, letting out an audible "Aaaah!" as the body under her hands pushed themselves further into her palms. She reflexively squeezed her breast in her fingers, the flesh she had contouring to her hand and drawing away from her body, only adding to the overload her nerves were experiencing all over her body.

Lisa's body lowered back to the bed as she panted heavily, her mind wrapping around what she had just discovered. Her hands fell next to her head as her naked torso heaved in the dark, her eyes drooping as her mind analyzed the sensation of her first orgasm against what she knew about it from awkward science class presentations and television.

It was something she couldn't read about, or learn more about without experiencing it first hand.

As her eyes drifted shut, Lisa smiled slightly and slid herself under her bed covers, silently drifting off to sleep.

In the next room over, her hidden observer did much of the same, although his smile was for different reasons.


	9. The Calm Before

Dominance in Despair

Chapter 9

_The Calm Before_

_

* * *

_

Author's note: My apologies for the extended absence. Long story short, college restarted and I started, and summarily ended, a relationship that kept me away from our favorite sexual deviant. But, now that my classes are in full swing and I have free time again, I get to bring those stories to my readers.

I will say that, even though not much happens here, it sets up the next chapter, which will be a doozy.

Finally, while I was considering where to take the story from here, I considered that DiD would make a decent Simpsons fan comic. Anyone with an artistic talent who thinks the same, feel free to drop me a PM. A link to a sample of your work would be handy.

* * *

"Well, if it isn't Marjorie J. Bouvier."

Marge whipped her head around as she exited her cab in front of the hotel, a smile spreading across her face as she saw the owner of the familiar, gritty voice.

"Selma!" Marge exclaimed as she hugged her older sister, dropping her luggage on the sidewalk in the process as the taxi slinked off into the Capital City gridlock. "How did you know I was coming?"

"Hey, I work at the courthouse, remember?" Selma replied. It had been a while since Patty and Selma relocated with their mother to Capital City. As Patty likes to say, it's easy living it up in the big city on a stash of cigarette settlement cash.

Marge giggled, her hand over her mouth. "I should have figured. Where's Patty?"

"She's with Ma," Selma replied, a frown falling across her face. "She's in the hospital again."

Marge's facial expression matched her sister's as she picked up her luggage, the two walking into the lobby. "Her lungs again?"

Selma nodded. "Yeah, she's a Bouvier all right. Gonna smoke 'till the grave." She accented this statement with a mucus-filled hack of her own, which was met with an unapproving look from her younger sister.

Following a short check in, the two headed into the elevator as they travelled towards Marge's room. Selma whistled at the opulence of the wood-lined box. "Ritzy. How did you afford a room here Miss Bouvier?"

Marge blushed slightly and smiled with a meek reservation, her mind flitting back to her benefactor. "Actually, it's still Simpson until the divorce is final..."

Selma, blinking like something just finally registered, cut her sister off. "Wait a minute, why did you take a cab here? And where are the girls?"

Marge lifted her bags as the elevator lurched to a stop, the doors sliding open. "Well, I didn't want the girls to sit there in court, so my tenant is looking after them. I left him the car for that purpose."

Selma grinned and chuckled. "Oh yes, the mystery man...Paul was it?" Marge blushed slightly at the mention of his name.

"So, how sexy is he?"

"SELMA!" Marge exclaimed, a little shocked at her sister's forwardness. Granted, she knew Selma would screw anything warm and breathing, but she still hated it when she was so...forward. Especially when it involves her.

Selma just replied with a chuckle as her and Marge entered Marge's small but comfortable suite. Slapping her bags on the bed, Marge collapsed onto the sofa as Selma leaned on the wall. "So, little sister, got time to join me for coffee? To celebrate your womanly freedom?"

Marge sighed and rubbed her forehead. Womanly freedom nothing, she's still got a family to take care of, the entire reason she was here. "No, I have a meeting with Bart's lawyer in a few hours. I was about to call a cab."

Selma grunted her disapproval. "Come on, I'll take you. And we'll get coffee along the way."

Marge thought that sounded like a mighty fine idea.

* * *

"I WANT ICE CREAM!"

Paul grimaced as the six year old screamed in his ear from the back seat. "Maggie, it's 8 in the morning...you already missed your bus, and you'll be late for school! So for the last time, we are NOT getting ice cream."

The morning was just going -so- well for Paul. He woke up to find two very confused girls in the hallway, apparently thinking that "breakfast" was something served by a third party, and them boarding the bus that was pulling away in the street without it would cause the universe to implode.

As Paul waited for the light to turn red, Maggie's protests and Lisa's annoyed sighs coming from all around him, he kinda wished the universe would implode.

* * *

Marge shifted nervously as she stared across the impressive mahogany desk belonging to Bart's lawyer. To say this man was old was to say that air was full of oxygen. The few strands of hair left to this decrepit pile of bar-certified bones quivered almost as rapidly as his frail frame.

"Now, Miss Simpson," the lawyer started. "tomorrow is the final hearing on whether Bart's case can go to trial."

Marge nodded, listening intently.

"I've motioned to have the case thrown out because the security video doesn't identify Bart as the shooter," the lawyer continued, the folds of skin hanging from his face quaking like a scared chihuahua, "and if the judge rules in our favor, Bart will be released then..."

Marge gulped, the lawyer's silence hitting her gut like a lead brick. "...and if he doesn't?"

"And if he doesn't, we go to trial...I should tell you at that point, my fee schedule goes up considerably."

Marge nods solemnly, hoping for her finances sake that the judge rules in their favor.


	10. Crisis

_Dominance in Despair  
Chapter 10  
"Crisis" _

* * *

Marge flipped on the light of her hotel room, slinking in to the room with the last of her strength. Leaning against the door, the door shut under her weight as she held a hand to her brow, her conservative but well-fitting green dress clothes rumpled from the fretting and emotions of events set off only a few hours ago...

* * *

_"Calling next case on the docket, State v. Simpson. Charge is murder in the first degree."_

_Marge stood with the rest of the gallery, her blue tower of hair peeking out above the crowd, jerking from side to side as she leaned over the railing to get a look at her son as he was led in._

_Bart certainly looked worse for wear in his ratty orange prison jumpsuit. The chains and cuffs attached to his legs and feet clanking above the repetitive clicking of camera shutters._

_"Wh...why is he chained up like that?" Marge asked worriedly, turning to the elderly lawyer standing on the other side of the railing._

_"Relax Miss. Simpson," the lawyer started in a low whisper. "I was informed Bart was involved in an altercation with another prisoner with a weapon involved." As if to cut off Marge's abject horror, he continued, "He wasn't hurt, but policy requires he be shackled until the investigation is complete and they determine if he acted in self defense."_

_"Of course he acted in self defense," Marge muttered under her breath, incensed that someone could even suggest her baby could harm another human being, even one as despicable as a prison inmate._

_As Bart silently approached the table, he turned and received a reassuring hug from his mother. He didn't even bother to ask where his father was, seeing as his support thus far has been in the form of paying half his legal fees._

_Bart stole a look at the prosecutor - and the grief-stricken Indian convenience store clerk behind him - and turned to face the judge as she sat at her podium, her birdlke features unsettling as she leered down at the soon-to-be 14 year old._

_"Alright, this evidentiary hearing will come to order. One way or another, after this we are going to trial," the hawkish judge said with no attempt to hide her annoyance, her voice sounding reminiscent of a pastor's wife leering at the sinners in church. "You may be seated..."_

_The hearing seemed to last forever, the events seeming like a blur in Marge's mind until the gavel's slam on the bench brought her crashing back to reality all over again._

_"It is the ruling of this court that enough evidence exists to take this matter to trial. Jury trial shall commence on..."_

_The words echoed through her mind, her memory failing to register the swarm of reaction from the gathered press, the elation on the other side of the aisle, the empty look on Bart's face as he was lead away..._

_As she exited the courtroom, Marge collapsed onto a bench, her green hat, familiar to so many Springfield churchgoers, tumbling to the floor as she hugged herself, the worn fabric being crushed under the heel of a passing lawyer._

_"Miss Simpson," her lawyer started as he sat down next to her, wiping the sweat from his sagging brow. "About my fees..."_

_

* * *

_

Marge tossed the damaged hat onto the bed, unbuttoning her green overcoat and the first few buttons of her cream colored blouse. She stared out her window, the dim lighting inside the room enhancing the sea of lights that is Capital City outside. She rubbed her red eyes, her makeup streaked where tears had been traveling down her face, as she tried to tried to collect her thoughts in the nighttime cityscape outside her window.

Even if Homer would consider increasing his financial contribution, Marge could never afford the higher fees and keep Lisa and Maggie fed, this much she already knew. She also knew that getting Bart a public defender was akin to sentencing him to a life sentence anyway, or worse.

"I could ask Paul again," she thought. She began to argue with herself at the idea: she was already more indebted to him than she would have liked.

However, as she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone, she realized... what other choice does she have right now?

* * *

"Is this because of your unnaturally large clit?"

Paul chuckled, laying his arms across the back of the couch. This was one of his favorite movies.

Lisa, on the other hand, furrowed her face in confusion. She didn't get what was so great about it. "So, this is what older boys think is funny?"

Paul shrugged. "It's not about age or gender, Lisa. It's just funny."

"Yeah, that's what you said about writing 'Eat Pussy' on the side of a wall too."

Paul groaned. "You just need to learn the intricacies of Kevin Smith's genius."

Lisa sighed and curled up, looking back at the movie. Her school uniform clung to her slightly as she leaned against Paul on the couch, slowly dozing off. The white fabric of her bra peeked out from between the buttons, a fact Paul did not fail to notice...

The phone rang.

Both Paul and Lisa jumped, startled by the noise. Straightening her shirt, Lisa stood and went to answer, Paul refocusing on the movie.

After a few moments, Lisa walked in and offered the phone to Paul, her face twisted in worry. "It's Mom, she wants to talk to you."

Taking the phone, Paul turned the TV off as he pressed it to his ear, Lisa watching on with concern as she heard only half of the conversation.

"Yes?...Uh huh...Oh, I-...Yeah, I can be there in a few hours...Flanders? Alright. Bye."

As he hung up, Lisa looked up to Paul as he stood. "Paul, what's going on?"

"I've been asked to see if the neighbor can watch you and Maggie tonight, then to go see your mom in Capital City."

Lisa nodded, noting that did not involve her or Maggie going as well. "Well, Maggie is sleeping over at a friend's after her Girl Guides meeting tonight..."

* * *

"Maggie, we're gonna go see if my mom is around the corner. Can you stay with our stuff?"

Maggie nodded as her friends ran off around the school building. Sitting down on the curb, she adjusted her sash, beaming as she played with the brand new "Plant Lore" badge pinned to it.

Across the street, a balding figure in a trenchcoat saw his chance. Exiting his banged up pink sedan, he approached the young, familiar girl, Maggie not noticing his presence until he was almost on top of her. He reeked of alcohol, and spoke with a slurred voice.

"My baby girl...it's me. It's Daddy...I'm here to take you home."


	11. The Offer

_Dominance in Despair_

_Chapter 11_

_"The Offer"_

* * *

Lisa sighed as she leaned against the window, resting her head on her palm as she stared out into the street. It had been a few hours since she saw the taillights of her mom's station wagon dissapear into the dark, Paul starting on his sudden and unexplained journey to Capital City.

It was the lack of explanation that worried her.

Ned furrowed his lips as he sat next to Lisa on the sofa, placing a tray of hot cocoa on the table with a distinct clank. Lisa didn't react, despite the mounds of whipped cream, wafer cookie and chocolate shavings that the aging Flanders was reputed to grace his hot cocoas with.

He even left off the customary cherry. Lisa hated cherries.

"Penny for your thoughts, Lisa?" Flanders had to be the most caring man Lisa knew, not that it would help right now.

"Just...everything, you know?" Lisa sighed. "You know Bart had a big hearing today...but instead of letting me know how it went, my mom just asked for Paul to drive all the way up there in the middle of the night, and didn't tell me anything."

The elder Simpson daughter turned, staring at the floor, placing her hands between her knees as she wrung them, her plaid school skirt worn from the day's rigors. "And now she won't even answer her phone."

Ned hummed in that way he's done for years, nudging the drink closer to Lisa. She picked it up and stared at it, the hot liquid warming her hands through the china. "I'm sure your mom has her reasons," he said in his best reassuring tone.

"But let's change the subject. Tell me about this Paul fellow. I can't say I know him very well."

Lisa looked up at Ned, a slight blush crossing her face. "Well...he's smart, and cute...a little strange, kinda keeps to himself. He's been a great help to my mom though."

Ned nodded. "Where's he from?"

"Michigan, I think. He said he's living on a trust and traveling the country, writing a book. I think he's just staying in Springfield until spring."

Ned shuddered. A nomad, one step away from a vagrant. Something about the new Simpsons tenant seemed off, and this information did little to assuage that gut feeling. "So, where's Maggie? Shouldn't she be home by now?"

"Normally, she would have been home hours ago. She's staying the night at a friend's house."

Lisa took a sip of the cocoa and smiled, licking the mustache of whipped cream from her lips as a puff of steam escaped the hole in the cream her mouth made, a froth of melted cream foaming on the surface.

As she raised the cup for a second sip, both her and Ned's attention were grabbed by a flash of headlights through the window facing the Simpson abode. As they peered out, they made out the image of a large man exiting the car, running up to the door. He began banging on it with some sense of urgency as Lisa's eyes adjusted to the dark.

What did Chief Wiggum want at this hour?

* * *

Paul turned the door handle with a soft click. Marge didn't answer his call when he pulled up to the hotel, but he was surprised to find a room key waiting for him.

As he pushed the door open, Paul was immediately hit with the stench of alcohol. Stepping in, the dark-haired young man was able to easily trace it to its' source.

Whatever was going on, Paul thought, it was enough to drive Marge to empty the contents of the mini bar into her stomach, her glazed stare drifting up to him as she straightened up from her slumped sitting position on the floor, leaning against the air conditioning unit. She brushed her slouching beehive hairdo to the side, only to have it flop back across her gaze. Her rumpled outfit shifted as she moved to stand before failing miserably, flopping back down on her butt as she groaned. Only one of her shoes could be immediately located.

"Marge, what's going on?" Paul actually showed some genuine concern; this was highly out of character and something he had not counted on. He hated that.

Marge spoke with a slur normally reserved for her estranged soon-to-be-ex husband. "Oh...Paul...you're here..." With a second oomph, Marge managed to haul herself to her feet, a few glass bottles clinking to the floor out of the folds of her outfit. She was unsteady on her feet, glaring at Paul with an unsteady, almost unreadable face.

"The front desk says you've ignored a lot of calls."

Marge staggered at him, forcing him to catch her as she almost fell down. She hung limp in his arms like a sack of potatoes as Paul drug her up straighter, blinking as Marge looked up at him and began moving her lips.

"You know...I hate having to ask you for help..."

Paul cocked his head to the side. What did that mean? Marge pressed herself up against him as she tried to straighten herself, her chest rubbing against his torso as she grasped his blue t-shirt's collar for support and leverage.

"Every time I ask...you say yes...and it's another thing I owe you that I can't repay..."

This required some investigation. "What do you mean? It's just an advance on my rent."

"No," Marge exclaimed rather sharply, spitting a little on Paul's shirt. Better than vomit, he figured. "That's not enough...I can't repay you with a room...or money...or even my body, not for everything you've done for me and my family."

Paul grinned as Marge buried her face in his chest, supporting her by the arms.

Marge continued. "And now...if I don't ask for your help again, my little boy's life will be over...he'll go to jail forever...unless I can cover his legal fees..."

Paul prodded a little with his response. "Marge...I'm not a bottomless well of money...I can't keep helping you every time..."

Marge began to cry drunken tears, staining his blue shirt with the salty liquid. Her shoulders heaved with her sobs. "I know...I don't know what else to do...Please Paul...what can I do?"

"Marge...there is an agreement we can come to for me to help you."

Marge sniffled, looking up at him as she focused on the scrap of hope she's been tossed. If the Simpson matriarch were sober, she would have been instantly disturbed by the dark, almost domineering look Paul has suddenly taken on.

"I know what you can do to have me help you...not just today either."

Marge grasped Paul's shirt as she felt his weight shift.

"For a price, I can help you all you need...financially, physically...I can protect you...Lisa...Maggie..."

Marge's head swam as she gasped, feeling Paul guide her onto the bed. Her gaze was now locked on him, wide eyed as he hovered over her, his body not against hers except for the arms he used to hold himself up on the mattress, arms that posted under her own, arms that hers brushed against as she began to breathe heavily, her bra beginning to grow tight as it began to become too small for her body.

"Do you want to know what the price is?"

Marge could only inhale raggedly as she arched a little towards him, writhing beneath his form as hig sinister gaze kept hers locked to it like a snake hypnotizing its prey. To Paul, this was as good as a yes. Time to spring his elaborately-laid scheme.

"You."

Marge's breath caught in her chest as she processed this revelation.

"I'm not talking about marriage," Paul cooed as he leaned in closer, only touching Marge's cheek with his hand as he cupped it, her breathing increasing in pace. "I'm talking about you becoming mine."

Paul drew his face in closer.

"Heart...body...soul..."

Marge's mind raced as she digested this. Why wasn't she rejecting it outright? Marge, despite her drunken haze, was having problems figuring out with her conscience as to why this seemed even the tiniest bit like an acceptable arrangement.

"You would do as I say...dress as I say...act as I say...pleasure me whenever and wherever I please..."

Marge gulped, her cheeks growing flush as she thought of this, her body reacting on its own.

"and in exchange...I offer you a life without worry...no more fretting over legal fees for your son...no more wondering how you will pay the bills tomorrow...no more wondering if you will lose everything to Homer...protection for you and your daughters from those who would harm them..."

Marge couldn't formulate a response either way. All she could do was breathe raggedly and draw up towards him as he moved his lips to meet hers.

The phone rang.

Marge eeped as her cell phone went off next to her on the bed. Both her and Paul glanced at it. The caller ID read "Ned."

"Paul...I..."

"You don't have to answer right away...but you need to answer soon," Paul smirked visibly as he drew back, allowing Marge to grasp the phone. "Bart's legal fees are due soon."

Marge didn't register the veiled threat, picking up the phone. She cleared her throat and did her best to not sound as sauced as she really was.

"Ned, what is it? This is a bad ti...Lisa?"

Paul's attention perked up. It was nearly 1 AM, what would make Lisa call at this time of night?

"Lisa, slow...slow dow..."

Marge bolted upright, her head fighting through the haze as her protective, motherly instincts were kicked into overdrive.

"What do you mean, Maggie is missing?"

* * *

Maggie whimpered as she struggled against the ropes binding her wrists behind her back. She didn't recognize the stained, filthy apartment she was brought too, a fact that only compounded her distress and confusion.

"Daddy...daddy I want to go home."

Homer belched, his alcoholic stench indistinguishable from the stench pervading the apartment. As he approached, Maggie tried to back away, being held fast by the rope collar that tethered her to the brass bed's backboard.

"Oh, my precious Maggie," Homer slurred, Maggie's eyes growing wide with fear as she focused on his overall nakedness, specifically his erection.

"Daddy...please, I want to go home..."

"She took everything from me," Homer continued over the seven year old's impassioned pleas, not reacting to her yelp as he began tearing the now filthy Girl Guide's uniform off of her piece by piece.

Fear gripped even Maggie's ability to scream as Homer produced a box cutter, slicing off the last piece of clothing: a small pair of simple cotton panties.

"I'll make sure she can't take you...I'll make you mine forever."


	12. Contract

_Dominance in Despair_

_Chapter 12_

_"Contract"_

* * *

The fire crackled softly in the corner, casting shadows across the dark room, the warm glow splashing about the high-backed lounge chair. Despite the best efforts of the crackling wood, the dancing lights did nothing to make the room seem cold and gloomy, like a scene from a Charles Dickens holiday story.

The atmosphere was dominated by the chair's sole occupant. His bony, raspy fingers grasped the red felt arms of the chair, staring intently into the fire. He was dressed in a fine brown silk robe, a puffy red cravat covering his chest, restricted by a dazzling silver stickpin. His legs were covered by a well-pressed set of pinstripe pants ending in a pair of expensive-looking crocodile skin shoes.

His aging but fit face scowled as he absentmindedly traced the edge of his brandy glass as it sat on the end table next to the chair. His hard gray eyes remained fixed on the flames that warmed his face, taking a sip of his drink and setting the glass back down.

He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a single sheet of parchment, which appeared too old to be any variety of modern mass-produced paper. With a scowl, the man crumpled the sheet and threw it into the fire.

The fire crackled with delight as it graciously accepted the new fuel, like a dog accepting a treat.

As the ball settled on the burning wood, it began to fold out and straighten, resuming its original shape. The parchment, its black ink that formed the writing on it glistening in the inferno, sat quietly on the burning wood, unaffected by the flames that engulfed it.

The man sipped his brandy again, unsurprised by the document's failure to burn. He must have done this a thousand times, each time with the same result. When the fire dies down, he'll fish the parchment out, and it will be as cold to his touch as it was the first time he held it.

In all honesty, he just found the act of throwing it into the fire a little cathartic.

"You know, I never understood that about you."

The man glanced over his shoulder, a familiar young woman leaning against the side of his chair. She was dressed in a black business suit that seemed to melt into the shadows, the light from the fire disappearing into her short cut black hair. The flames flickered in her violet eyes with an almost unnatural glow.

"What I do is none of your business," the old man growled.

The woman checked her black-painted fingernails. "Not anymore it isn't," she coyly remarked to her hand, glancing at the elderly man out of the corner of her eye, like a child glancing at a bug before crushing it.

The man shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?"

The woman giggled, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Oh, you didn't hear?"

The man's silent glare was answer enough.

"Well think about it. You think a man your age and in your physical condition could fulfill the terms of the contract?"

The man stood and faced the woman, leaning on the chair arm for support. "The contract passed back to me when Robert died," he shouted in a raspy voice.

The woman stood, turning her back to the man as she walked away. "You think we need the physical contract to fulfill the terms? It's the modern age…all he needed to get started was an idea and a push in the right direction…"

The man looked on, the futility of the situation weighing on him as the young woman disappeared into the darkness beyond the flame's reach, her voice echoing from the ether.

"He may be the best in generations…my employer thanks you for being such a _good_ father."

The man growled at the sarcasm dripping from her lips as he sat back down. "Damn you, Lilly…"

The man continued to stare at the flames as he picked up his phone, dialing a number.

"Gerald…It's Anton. First thing in the morning, I want a meeting with all of our corporate investigators. We need to find my son."

He hung up the receiver, watching the dying fire recede around the undamaged parchment.

"And damn you, ancestor, for cursing us all."

* * *

Paul leaned against the station wagon, the engine still running despite the pounding it took in the near-record pace it set returning to Springfield. He could see Marge worriedly talking to Chief Wiggum in front of his cruiser, but he couldn't hear what was being said. Her ragged form was little more than a silhouette against the flashing lightbar and headlights of the police car.

"Paul…is Maggie going to be okay?"

Paul looked down at Lisa, her voice piping up next to him. She wrapped herself tightly in her blanket, trying to protect herself from the bite of the cold night air more than her simple white cotton nightgown ever could, her bare toes curling on the freezing concrete of the driveway.

"I'm sure she will be Lisa," Paul said reassuring, his voice barely containing his anger. Someone was fucking up his plan, and he didn't appreciate it one bit.

He looked back up as he heard the car door slam, the police car moving off into the night as Marge walked up to the two, her ruffled dress clothes so disheveled they looked like they would fall to pieces with a strong enough breeze.

"He says that they're calling in a search dog, but that'll take hours," Marge said in a weak, quaking voice. "They tried to tell Homer, but they said they can't find him."

Paul cocked his head. "He's not at the bar?"

Marge shook hers. "No…no, and he's not at Barney's or answering his phone…"

Paul and Lisa stepped aside as Marge moved to the driver's door of the station wagon, pulling the door open. "I'm going to go see if I can get Homer to answer the door…Paul, please stay here with Lisa, okay?"

"But mom, yo-"

"Promise me Paul, you'll protect Lisa, okay?" Marge looked into Paul's eyes, her pleading gaze only accenting the pleading tone of her voice.

Paul only nodded as Lisa gripped his hand, drawing close as a cold gust sent her into shivers again.

Marge climbed into the car without a word and was soon a pair of tail lights disappearing into the darkness.

"Paul…" Lisa stammered. "You can't let mom go alone…"

Paul turned and smiled, cupping Lisa's cheek in his hand. She wasn't sure if it was his touch or the cold air, but she felt her flesh tingle as her body was flushed with heat.

"Of course not," Paul said. "Now, go inside and lock the doors. Only open them for me or your mom."

As Lisa turned and ran inside, Paul pulled out Marge's cell phone. A quick call later, a taxi arrived to take him to his destination.

From out of the corner of his window, a concerned Ned Flanders watched Paul leave in pursuit of Marge, peeking around the edge of his curtains.

"Something about him isn't right," he muttered to himself, unable to put a finger on the strange sense of foreboding he got whenever he looked at the young man.


	13. It Smells like Danger

_Dominance in Despair_

_Chapter 13_

_"It Smells like Danger"_

* * *

The transmission clicked compliantly as Marge shifted the red station wagon into park, snugly behind a familiar pink sedan, the run down apartment building in the old part of downtown Springfield looming over the worried woman like a stern schoolteacher, leering at a rambunctious child.

The mother weaved a stray strand of blue hair out of her eyes and back into her ragged beehive hairdo, confirming the address with the one drunkenly scrawled on the tawdry bar coaster. She was disheartened to hear that Barney was out of town, and was uneasy about talking to her estranged husband alone, especially with the divorce case pending.

But Maggie was more important than that.

As she exited the car, her heels tapping on the filthy concrete, a group of men huddled together under a streetlight at the corner leering at her. One or two catcalls emanated from the group before they returned to whatever it was they were doing, Marge certain that it was horribly illegal.

Locking the door, she straightened her clothes as she marched up the short staircase to the tenement building door. A quick scan of the mailboxes for Barney's name revealed her destination. Gripping her purse close to her, she made her way up the flights of creaky stairs.

"Apartment 5B," Marge thought to herself. Taking a deep breath, she knocked gingerly on the low-quality wood. She nearly jumped out of her own skin as the unlatched door creaked open, the interior dark, although a figure was obviously present.

Gingerly, Marge stepped inside, looking around for any response to her presence, if not a light switch. "Homer?" she called.

The door slammed behind her.

* * *

The line of drunks at Moe's Tavern failed to respond as Paul entered through the door. A few nursed drinks like always, while most of them seemed to be keen on drunkenly impressing a woman sitting at the end of the bar.

Moe himself, however, was much more attentive. "Hey there, mac. What can I get ya for," the disgusting bartender said as he spat in the glass he was shining in a horrible example of stereotyping at its' best.

"No, thanks," Paul muttered. "You can help me find someone though. Woman, mid to late thirties, blue hair stacked high..."

"Oh, you mean Midge?" Moe interjected. "Yeah, she was here earlier, was lookin' fer Lenny." He motioned towards one of the men hitting on the lone woman at the bar. "Dunno where she went though."

Paul nodded his gratitude as he approached the two.

"Eyeeee there lady," Lenny slurred, holding onto the woman's arm for stability before she brushed it off disdainfully. "Why dun you come withth me n' my friend for a good time."

Paul grabbed Lenny by the shoulder and spun him around. "Where did Marge Simpson go?" he demanded.

Lenny only gargled as he fell out of his chair, hitting the floor.

"I think the woman you are looking for went to a 'Barney's' apartment," the woman pipped up. She brushed aside her short black bangs as a cigarette burned away in her other hand, the smoke drifting upwards haphazardly.

Paul sat down in the recently liberated seat. "Do you know where that is?"

The woman pursed her lips, pulling out a pen and writing an address on a napkin.

Paul grinned and went to take it. "I'd thank you properly, but I'm in a hurry."

As Paul gripped the napkin, the woman grabbed his hand, stuffing what looked like a business card into it.

"When you're done saving the day, meet me there, and you can find out just how you can thank me."

Paul shifted a little uneasily as he pocketed both items, a little taken aback at the intensity with which this oddly familiar woman gazed at him from behind those vivid violet eyes. He only managed a nod as he headed out the door, stopping only to liberate Lenny of his car keys.

None of the bar patrons seemed to notice, much less protest.


End file.
